‘As soon as you have shown me to my room I shall send a note to a woman I know. She’s the fastest seamstress in town. She will have you suitably gowned in no time.’
‘Um –’ Araminta began.
‘Now.’ She rose. ‘My room, if you please.’
‘There’s a slight problem with the rooms I’m afraid, Miss Orksville, ma’am,’ Archibald said.
The thin eyebrows elevated above the pale eyes. ‘And that is?’
‘No linen.’
‘No linen?’
‘No linen. Her ladyship took it all with her.’
Wilhelmina Orksville’s frigid countenance expressed her opinion of Constance Fosbury.
‘So,’ Archibald hurried on. ‘We need to buy some today. If we can’t I’ll bespeak rooms at the hotel.’
‘Nonsense.’ Wilhelmina’s tone had her employer jumping as if stung. ‘There’s bound to be some somewhere. I doubt the servants’ beds were stripped.’ Her faintly accusing stare switched to her new charge. ‘Have you examined them?’
Araminta shook her head. The titian curls flicked dangerously. ‘I don’t even know where they are.’
Miss Orksville’s fingers twitched. ‘Then we had better find them, miss.’ Her dark hem whipped round her ankles as she made for the door. ‘Come along,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘We’ll start in the maids’ rooms.’
The maids’ rooms were tiny spaces squashed under the attic’s sloping roof. The first one had Araminta ducking her head almost as soon as she entered. The gloomy light came from a minuscule window that had clearly never been cleaned. The walls stood in dire need of repainting and all but the most basic of comforts was lacking. Two truckle beds were squeezed head first under the sloping ceiling where it angled down to a side wall barely three feet high. A battered chest of drawers crouched by the door with a row of hooks on the wall at its far side. Folded onto the thin mattresses were coarse-looking blankets topped by worn sheets. A lumpy pillow lay beside each pile. Miss Orksville lifted the corner of one sheet between finger and thumb. She growled. A quick prod at the pillow produced a second growl. Moving at a crisp pace, she inspected the five other rooms. An unusually-silent Araminta followed in her wake until the tour finally ended.
‘As I thought,’ she said, standing at the stairhead, ‘there is sufficient linen for tonight, albeit very inferior. We shall visit the warehouses tomorrow to acquire some of more suitable quality. Now, we shall tell the housekeeper to have them moved.’
‘There is no housekeeper, ma’am.’
For once Wilhelmina Orksville was bereft of words. A bony hand gripped the banister rail beside the steep flight of stairs. After a moment she managed, ‘Why is that?’
‘Nesbit says all the staff was turned off.’
‘Nesbit?’
‘The under-butler.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I’m not sure, ma’am.’
‘We shall find him then.’
The spindly figure marched on, down the topmost narrow stair, the next wider stairway and finally down two more impressive flights until she paused at a green baize door hidden at the back of the entrance hall. Without pausing to see if Araminta had joined her, she pushed it open and stalked through. A narrow hall tapered to another flight of stairs. Miss Orksville advanced.
Nesbit was sitting in the minuscule butler’s pantry in the basement, his coat unbuttoned, imbibing a reviving glass of porter. He was pondering how to tell his temporary master of his sister’s refusal to help in the matter of bedlinen. A smart rap on the door before it was flung open brought him to his feet so promptly a quantity of the porter slurped over the tankard’s edge onto his boots.
‘Miss Neave tells me all the staff save for yourself were turned off. Is that true?’
Nesbit spluttered. ‘Yes, ma’am. All but me. And cook and my lady’s maid. But they went to the country with the family.’
‘Why were they turned off? Were they found dishonest?’
‘No, ma’am. They were all given characters when they left. My lady was insistent. Sore put about she was too.’
‘I suggest then, you go and find them – or as many as you can – and have them come back. Mister Neave is not accustomed to be without a proper household.’
A smile spread across Nesbit’s face. ‘Right away, ma’am. I know where a good half of them is.’ He wiped a hand across his damp mouth and buttoned his coat with quick fingers. Grabbing a worn beaver that had once been his lordship’s, he bowed himself backwards out of the door.
‘Now,’ Miss Orksville turned to Araminta. ‘How many maids have you brought?’
‘Two, ma’am.’
‘Very well. Follow me.’
Miss Orksville strode out of the under-butler’s pantry. She paused. ‘Have you inspected the kitchens as yet?’
The question struck Araminta dumb until the level stare made her recover herself. ‘No ma’am. We arrived bare minutes before you.’
The pale amber eyes gave no indication of whether Wilhelmina Orksville considered this a failing or an adequate excuse. ‘Have you done so in your previous houses?’
‘No, ma’am.’ The temptation to explain was irresistible. ‘In India, Pa had a major domo to do it.’
Wilhelmina Orksville quashed such pretention instantly. ‘I hope you realise how fortunate you have been to see such wondrous places. Most of us have not been so privileged.’ Her features assumed a distant expression. A small sigh escaped her. It was immediately quelled. The softened expression disappeared. She straightened her spine and squared her bony shoulders. ‘You will have to learn how to manage a household. If we are as successful as your father hopes – and refer to him as Papa or Father in future, not Pa – you might have charge of a considerable establishment. Any decent husband will expect you to know how to manage it even if he has a steward and so forth.’ She crossed the flagstoned floor to the kitchen door. ‘Come along.’ She pushed it open.
Araminta followed.
The kitchen was a large room, brighter than usual thanks to the August sun streaming in through the open door. It should have been a busy room. It was not. The two footmen lounged at the far end of a long pine table. Tankards of beer stood beside them; newssheets spread before them. Two young women in striped blue gowns huddled, heads together, at the nearer end. In a large Winsor chair pulled up to the grate sat an equally large lady whose beam occupied its entire width. Only two sounds could be heard. The maids whispering as they cast their eyes towards the footmen and the kettle hissing over the fire. Movement was limited to an occasional turn of a news page and the lifting of a dainty cup to her mouth by the woman in the chair.
Wilhelmina Orksville drew a breath in through her nose. ‘Good morning.’
The effect of her words was magical and instantaneous. Men and maids leapt to their feet. The cook choked on a mouthful of tea. Thumping her chest with her fist, she eventually rose from the chair, pink of eye and flushed of cheek.
‘I am Miss Orksville. I shall be living here and my standards are particularly high. Take note that I will permit no slackness, nor will there be any unearned indulgencies. I shall inspect the household books every week. Anyone who earns my displeasure will find themselves turned off without a character. Have I made myself clear?’
Mumbles of understanding, or possibly fear, bubbled from the clustered staff.
‘Excellent. Now,’ a cold eye was cast over the maids, ‘I require our beds to be made up. I understand the best linen has been removed. Therefore you will use that from the vacated maids’ beds for Miss Neave’s and mine and a footman’s for Mr Neave’s.’ Neither of the maids moved. ‘What are your names?’
The older, plumper one with brown curls escaping from under her cap bobbed a belated curtsey. ‘Matty, miss.’
‘Matty? That is no name.’
The girl swallowed. ‘Ma
tilda, ma’am.’
Wilhelmina nodded. She turned her eyes on the other girl who was half cowering behind Matilda. ‘And?’’
‘Bessie, ma’am,’ she croaked.
The grey eyebrows rose.
Matty dug her elbow backwards into the girl’s ribs. ‘She’s Elizabeth, ma’am.’
‘Very well. Matilda and Elizabeth, when I give you an instruction, I expect it to be carried out at once. So . . . see to the sheets.’ She paused. The maids stared at her, motionless. ‘Now.’
The pair fled, skirts and apron strings flying.
Wilhelmina turned her attention to the woman by the fire. ‘I take it you are the cook Mr Neave has engaged?’
The plump woman, still clutching her teacup and gawping, half curtseyed. ‘Yes, ma’am. Mrs Fowley, ma’am.’
‘Well, Mrs Fowley, I will take tea in the parlour now, if you please. And bring your menu list for the week. We will go through it.’ The cool stare swam round to the nearest footman. ‘I require a message delivering. Attend me in ten minutes.’
The man, the youngest of the pair, gave his head a sharp nod. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Very good.’ With her final words, Miss Orksville swept round. ‘Come, Miss Neave.’
Three pairs of eyes followed her exit. After the door had closed, desperately anxious glances were exchanged.
At the foot of the stairs in the entrance hall, Miss Orksville paused, hand on the gilded newel post. ‘We will examine your gowns before I write to Miss Martlesham. She will need to know what swatches of material to bring.’
Head spinning from the past few minutes, Araminta looked at the thin figure advancing up the stairs. A feeling she could barely identify crept into her mind. Was it anger? That was something she rarely felt. Frustration? No. After years of indulgence by a doting father she recognised it at last. Resentment. Pure resentment at being unable to control events affecting her. It was a new and unwelcome experience.
The feeling found expression in words. ‘I like my gowns. They were made especially to my own designs.’
Without turning Miss Orksville continued up the stairs. ‘That is why we need a seamstress familiar with those appropriate to a girl of your years and situation.’
Gripping her skirts in both hands and with her teeth clenched again, Araminta mounted to the second-best room that was to be her bedchamber.
Matty, who had not quite finished making up the bed, flattened herself against the wall. Mouth agape, she watched Wilhelmina lift brightly coloured gowns and a gold riding habit out of the first trunk. All were discarded onto the sheets.
Hasty, unforgivable words rose to Araminta’s lips as gown after gown was rejected. She forced herself to press her lips together. She had promised her father and she was determined to see it through, even when the riding habit’s divided skirt was added to the pile with a shudder.
‘Matilda,’ Wilhelmina said. ‘Fold those things into the press and close the door.’
The maid could do no more than snap her mouth shut and nod. She stored up the comments and descriptions of the clothes in her head for the later delectation of Cook and Bessie.
Downstairs, Archibald Neave was enjoying a small doze in the parlour. His hazy dream of escorting his beloved daughter down the aisle towards an aristocratic groom shattered with the entrance of said daughter’s new mentor, followed by a glowering Araminta.
‘Mr Neave, have you a budget prepared for this endeavour?’
Struggling to his feet with more haste than grace, Archibald shook his head. ‘I don’t need a budget, ma’am.’ He tugged his waistcoat hem down to an appropriate position. His waistcoats all had tendency to curl up at the hem. ‘It will cost whatever it costs.’ He manfully ignored the dangerous gleam in his daughter’s eyes. ‘I want no expense spared for my darling girl.’
A long breath was drawn into Wilhelmina’s nostrils. ‘That may be generous, but it is no way to introduce a girl to financial management.’
The Neaves blinked. ‘Why would she need that?’
‘Every young woman should be aware of such matters if she hopes to manage an establishment of any size. There is too much lax behaviour these days. Too much debt from gambling and so forth.’
‘I don’t gamble.’ Araminta’s fists clenched. ‘I’ve never gambled.’
‘I’m relieved to hear it. Now, where’s that footman? I told him to wait upon me some time ago. Ring the bell Araminta, if you please.’
Five minutes later the younger footman was hurrying from the house, intent on delivering the message and securing an answer before the old harridan could enact her promise of a threatened and characterless dismissal.
Miss Martlesham was a lady of uncertain years and width, both cunningly disguised by the style and colour of her own garments. Miss Orksville’s message carried her into transports of delight. Casting the gown she had been hemming onto the sewing table drawn up to a narrow window, she left the drawers of a rather battered chest at the back of the room unopened and delved into a new-looking box on its top. It held swatches of the very latest and most expensive materials. Lifting them out one by one she laid them in a gingham-lined basket. Satisfied with her choices, she pulled the fabric cover protectively over the samples and gave it to the footman fidgeting by the door. A folder of fashion-plates extracted from such ladies’ journals as she could afford was added to his load.
‘We shall take a hackney coach. Go down to the street and summon one while I lock up. There is bound to be one passing at the corner.’
The footman looked from basket to folder. Stifling a sigh he did as he was bid. Minutes later squashed uncomfortably on the box beside the driver he glowered until a happy thought occurred. Despite the discomfort, riding would bring him to Miss Orksville’s good graces quicker than walking. And that, he strongly suspected, would ensure his employment. His relief was so great he forgot to try bilking the driver of the fare Miss Martlesham handed to him.
The seamstress’s arrival prompted varying reactions in the drawing room. Wilhelmina Orksville greeted her with approval. Araminta regarded her with deep suspicion. Archibald Neave nodded and smiled when she praised the young lady’s charming figure. Araminta glared at her father. Feelings of betrayal invaded her mind.
Satisfied she was in the presence of a father of undoubted worth and devotion, Miss Martlesham took the proffered seat on the settee beside Miss Orksville. The basket was uncovered with reverence. Squares of muslins, jaconets, sarsnets and every other type of material were revealed.
‘Excellent,’ Miss Orksville announced, flipping over the different swatches. ‘Exactly what we need.’
Still standing, Araminta bent forward and pulled the bundle from her hand. She shook the samples. They rippled over like pages of a soft book. ‘I can’t have these. They’re too plain.’ She tossed the swatches onto the sofa.
The two older ladies regarded her, then each other.
‘I assure you they are the latest thing, Miss Neave.’
‘But they’re so . . . insipid.’
Miss Martlesham rescued them and rose. ‘But just look at this one.’ She held out a square of cambric muslin delicately embroidered with primroses. ‘This is the very latest style. No-one has had it made up as yet.’ The faded eyes flickered over Araminta’s hair. ‘Very few young ladies have the colouring to support any form of yellow. You will be quite the exception.’
‘Listen to Miss Martlesham, Araminta. She dressed Lady Charlotte Brigstone for her debut this year. She attached the Duke of Charminster’s elder son inside two months.’
‘Excellent,’ Archibald Neave said. ‘You clearly know how to bring a girl up to snuff, ma’am.’
Miss Orksville cast him an evaluating look. Such language was not to be heard in refined drawing rooms. There was more to her task then she had realised.
Staring at the floor and with her hands g
ripped in the folds of in her unsuitable red gown, Araminta listened in silence to the two women’s discussion of what she would wear. Her nails dug deeper into her palms. She nodded wordlessly at the proposals for two morning dresses in delicate checks or embroidered muslins, all trimmed with flounces, ribbons, tucks or frills. Frills, she told herself, twisting her fingers even more tightly, I’m not a frills person. A further nod approved, or seemed to, a riding habit of proper construction, that is to say without the horror of a divided skirt. Three walking dresses and matching spencers joined the list. Two dinner gowns in cream and palest green muslin were silently accepted. The prospect of two ball gowns briefly lessened her disapproval. Their proposed form had it rising again. Neither was in the brilliant jewel colours she loved. One would be white gauze, trimmed with tiny embroidered leaves of green ivy. A matching, trailing sash would tie at each side. The second was pale lavender silk with a silver gauze half-gown over it. A ribboned Grecian wreath of grapes and vine leaves would decorate the bodice and short, puffed sleeves. Araminta concentrated on her father’s hopeful face to stop herself from saying honestly what she thought of the proposals.
‘And,’ announced a breathless Miss Martlesham, looking up from the copious list she had entered in a little notebook. ‘If you agree, I shall send to Mister William in St Martin’s Lane. I saw some buttons there, most beautifully carved in amethyst which will fasten the half-gown superbly.’ She cast an enquiring glance at Archibald who nodded again. ‘Excellent,’ she continued, much encouraged by his oblivion to the rapidly-mounting financial tally. ‘A pair of matching slippers embroidered with grapes will complement the gown to perfection.’ She drew a flourishing line under the last item. ‘Will you be requiring an itemised account, sir?’
Archibald waved a hand. ‘No. Not at all. A Dutch reckoning will do.’ He hesitated. ‘But no nonsense, mind. I have an idea of how much I’ll have to lay out so I know what to expect.’
Miss Martlesham’s spine stiffened. ‘I have never had any such suggestion made before, sir. All of my ladies have been more that appreciative of my terms. And their fathers.’
Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) Page 3