by Justine Cole
The wall behind the bed supported a graceful curve of mahogany. Sprigged blue silk draperies were hung from this wooden crown. The draperies were bound twice on each side by tasseled golden cords producing curved puffs that were looped against the wall. A dressing table was covered with the same sprigged fabric. Three windows, draped in a paler shade of blue, ran symmetrically across the front of the room. Alabaster white walls were accented by moldings painted the same blue as the draperies.
Rising stiffly, she stood for a moment next to the bed, taking in the room's furnishings. There was a mirror with a gilded frame, a bureau, a delicate chair with a small curved back, two alabaster candlesticks, and a lamp with a blue globe. It was finer than anything she had ever imagined.
As she surveyed the room she waited for Letty to leave so she could dress, but the servant was taking her time, straightening the bedcovers with mathematical precision. Noelle wondered if it were the custom of the gentry to permit servants to remain in the room while members of the household dressed. If so, it seemed a stupid custom. Even a pickpocket from Soho knew that privacy was just as important as food.
As the maid seemed to have no intention of leaving, Noelle decided to take advantage of the privacy of a small curtained alcove off the side of the room. She stepped inside, drawing the drapery behind her.
What a contrast the tiny room was to the crude sanitary facilities to which she was accustomed! There was a washstand, an assortment of elegant bottles holding a variety of sweet-smelling toiletries, embroidered linens, and an enormous chamber pot embellished with a full-length ceremonial portrait of the late George III. For the first time since she had awakened, her spirits lifted, and a soft giggle escaped as she contemplated relieving herself in the presence of His Majesty. The ways of the gentry were certainly strange.
She had just finished tidying herself when the curtain of the bathing alcove was drawn back to reveal the silent Letty, ugly brown dress in one hand, petticoats in another. Noelle spun about, indignant at this further invasion of her privacy.
The maid stood awkwardly, her expression stoic. It was difficult for Noelle to understand how such an ungainly woman could serve as abigail to one as elegant as Constance Peale. What she could not know was how well-suited mistress and maid were. Although slow, Letty was painstaking in her care of her employer's person and wardrobe. In turn, Constance was sensitive to Letty's awkwardness and provided her with a quiet refuge.
Noelle, however, knew none of this. Letty was merely another forbidding guardian of this strange land that had been thrust upon her. "What do you want?"
Noelle's sharp tone did not alter Letty's expression. "Help you dress," she mumbled.
"I can dress myself very well, thank you," Noelle retorted, taking the brown dress from Letty and snapping the draperies back into place.
She donned the fresh undergarments and settled the dress over her head, then slipped out of the bathing alcove to find Letty standing patiently beside the breakfast tray, her eyes downcast.
Noelle felt a quick flash of remorse for having spoken so impolitely to the woman. She was obviously doing her job as she had been trained. In an effort to make amends, she gestured toward the breakfast tray.-
"It all smells so good, but there's more here than I can eat. Would you like some?"
The bovine eyes flickered with surprise, and the stolid mouth, while it did not go so far as to smile, softened. "I already ate."
Her conscience eased, Noelle settled herself in front of the breakfast tray and nibbled a flaky croissant.
"Thank you, ma'am, for the offer."
Noelle looked up to find the abigail's face flushed at the effort of making conversation. "You're welcome."
Letty turned to leave the room and then paused. "The mistress's sitting room is across the hall when you're ready to see her, Mrs. Copeland."
Mrs. Copeland!
Fury choked Noelle. She set down the croissant, her appetite lost. Letty had been told her identity! Constance had promised to keep it a secret, but not even a day had passed before she had broken their agreement. Gentry! Just because they had money, they thought they could trample over those who didn't. Well, she would show them! She was not going to be pushed about by anyone again.
Shoving herself back from the table, Noelle rushed from the halcyon room to confront her hostess. The sound of voices within led her to the proper door. She had just raised her fist to bang on the door when she heard an indignant exclamation.
"It's a disgrace; that's what it is, ma'am. Mr. Quinn marrying a common harlot and her livin' right here with us."
In the sitting room, unaware that they were being overheard, Constance was engaged in a painful interview with Violet Finch, her housekeeper and cook. Mrs. Finch, one of the few cooks in England who had totally mastered French cuisine, had been Constance's prize employee for eleven years. Her kitchen had helped make the Peale dinner parties legendary with offerings such as a ratatouille that breathed of the shores of Provence, coq au vin lightly touched with thyme, airy fish soufflés, rich brioches, and bombe glacée garnished with a delicate web of spun sugar.
However, as Constance had long ago discovered, having Mrs. Finch in her employ was a mixed blessing, for she had a strong sense of the way things should be and was indignant when others saw differently. For over a decade, Constance had been soothing her cook's ruffled feathers, for she had no intention of losing the irreplaceable services of Violet Finch.
"A harlot! Come now, Mrs. Finch, where on earth did you hear that?"
As if I didn't know, thought Constance, imagining the interrogation poor Letty had suffered at the hands of Mrs. Finch. She should have warned her last night to keep silent. Not that it would have been much use. Mrs. Finch's methods would have done the Spanish Inquisition proud.
"I got it from Letty, ma'am." The cook pursed her thin lips sanctimoniously. "As you well know, I consider it my Christian duty to watch over the girl and see that she doesn't fall into bad ways. I must admit, Mrs. Peale, I was that surprised last night when you told me the . . . person . . . was to be your guest. Dressed as she was, I'd taken her for a new maid. And then, when Letty told me how she'd had her face all painted and been wearin' a harlot's dress that left her bosom to no one's imagination . . . I don't want to upset you, ma'am, but I felt my heart palpitations comin' on again."
Curse you and your heart palpitations! Constance wanted to shriek. What a muddle this was turning into.
"Now, now, my dear Mrs. Finch, it is most unlike you to judge someone by such thin evidence. I am not at liberty to divulge the circumstances behind Mr. Copeland's marriage, but I can assure you that Mrs. Copeland is not, nor has she ever been, a harlot." Constance managed to look deeply offended.
Somewhat subdued, but certainly not satisfied, Mrs. Finch protested, "But the way she was dressed? And what about that hair?"
Constance delicately pressed her hand to the base of her throat. "Come now, Mrs. Finch, surely you would not have me break a solemn oath!" She appeared to think for a moment. "Perhaps it is just as well this has come up after all, for now I can approach you openly. As you can imagine, I am in dire need of a confidante, a woman of discretion and great Christian charity. Yes, Mrs. Finch, I see that I have no choice but to cast myself on your tender mercies."
The cook's plump face beamed with pleasure. "Mrs. Peale, you know you may depend on me. It's difficult for you, bein' a woman alone without the counsel of a husband. Ever since the death of Mr. Peale, God rest his soul, I've been sayin' to myself—"
"Quite so," Constance interrupted smoothly. "As you have realized, the new Mrs. Copeland is not a woman of, shall we say, the breeding one would expect of a Copeland bride. She is, alas, a poor, defenseless creature, too ignorant to deal with even the simplest demands made upon her." Forgive me, Noelle, Constance thought ruefully, but Violet Finch's cooking is my Achilles' heel.
"It is useless for me to pretend that she will be anything but a great burden to us." At this pronouncemen
t, Mrs. Finch, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction, gave a great sigh. "However, I hope I know my duty when I see it. When Mr. Simon Copeland pleaded with me to take her in . . . well, what else could I do?" Shrugging her shoulders pitifully, Constance Peale was a portrait of helplessness.
"You did right," the cook pronounced, her lips set in a determined line. "Now, you just stop fretting, ma'am, and leave everything to me. The staff will treat the poor creature well, or they'll have to answer to Violet Finch."
Noelle, her cheeks burning with humiliation, fled back to her bedroom and had barely shut the door before she heard Mrs. Finch's footsteps disappearing self-righteously down the hallway.
As she sank down in front of the dressing table she caught sight of her reflection in the gilded mirror. Dressed as she was, with her crudely dyed hair, skin so unhealthily pale it seemed almost waxen, and great sunken eyes, she appeared exactly as they had characterized her, an object of charity. "Poor defenseless creature." "Ignorant." "Great burden." The words stung like a slap. On the streets they had called her "Highness"; she had been respected, even feared by some.
Leaping up from the dressing table, she vowed that they were not going to do this to her. She would not be sniveled over with talk of Christian charity. They could all go to hell; she was going back to London!
In her exhaustion of the night before, she had thrown her bundle under the bed. Now she retrieved it and tossed it on top of the bedcovers. Her fingers fumbled at the buttons on the bodice of the brown merino. She would not take this charity dress with her; she would rather walk to London in the hated emerald gown. Cursing herself under her breath for her stupidity in ever having agreed to leave London, she peeled the brown dress off and, standing in her undergarments, began unwrapping her bundle. Angry tears coursed down her cheeks as she pulled out the gown, but she paid them no heed. She was not taking anyone's charity!
Unbidden, Simon Copeland's words began assaulting her. "Will you hang up a coat and train him to be a pickpocket?" he had sneered. "Deflowering a virgin will cure them of the French pox."
"No," she sobbed aloud, but his words continued echoing in her mind.
"What if it's a girl? What if it's a girl? A girl . . . a girl . . ."
With a strangled cry, Noelle threw the emerald dress down on the bed. "God damn them!"
She was trapped. No matter how much she suffered, she could not risk leaving here until she knew if she was carrying a child. Her dreams were already haunted by the starving children she saw every day, their bellies swollen with hunger, their faces empty and hopeless. Forfeiting her pride was a small price to pay to insure that a child of her body would never be among them.
She consoled herself with the reminder that, if she were not pregnant, it would only be a matter of weeks before she could leave this luxurious prison.
And if she were? Her stomach knotted at the thought. If she were pregnant, she would be forced to accept their charity until the birth. It would be a bitter sacrifice, but when she had delivered, she could leave the baby to the protection of these wealthy people, knowing it would be well cared for. Then she would be able to return to the freedom of her old life.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she pulled the brown dress back on. It sickened her that she was going to be forced to accept Constance Peale's smug charity. At least no one would ever know that she had overheard the women's conversation; that much of her pride she could salvage.
As she angrily stuffed the green gown back into the worn sack, her hand skimmed against the knife she had stolen from Simon's kitchen. Thoughtfully she lifted it out and set it on the bedcovers. She would have at least one friend while she was in this house! Tearing a ragged strip from her chemise, she strapped the weapon to her calf, then reluctantly faced the door, determined to go through with her interview. "I'm going to make that woman wish she hadn't been so quick to do her Christian duty," Noelle pledged as she took a deep breath and once again crossed the hallway.
She attacked Constance's door with three ferocious knocks.
"Come in," her hostess's voice raçg out.
Constance's sitting room and adjoining bedroom were delicate pink and green confections. Benjamin himself had purchased the hand-painted wallpaper in Canton as an anniversary gift for his wife. From the top of the painted wainscoting to the ceiling, a filigree of pale green bamboo climbed the walls. Tiny figures dressed in shell pink robes and carrying gossamer parasols adomed the paper at eye level. There were lacquered chests, Chinese vases, and porcelain figures. The same pink of the wallpaper figures was repeated in the silk bed hanging and the Chippendale chaise on which Constance reclined.
She wore a lime-green froth of ribbons and deep lace that rustled softly as she set aside some papers she had been studying.
"Noelle, my child, I'm delighted to see you. I trust you slept well." Her nose wrinkled becomingly as she smiled warmly at her guest, carefully concealing the distress that overcame her each time she caught sight of the starved, pinched face.
"I slept well," Noelle responded stiffly.
"Do sit down, my dear. I have so much to discuss with you." A large pearl ring set in gold flashed on Constance's hand as she indicated a chair next to her chaise.
Noelle sat rigidly, not permitting her back to touch the chair.
"You do look better after your rest last night."
What a liar she is, Noelle thought scornfully. Does she think I haven't looked in the mirror?
"We live simply here, you know," Constance continued brightly, "so you needn't worry about hordes of people descending on us. So tiring, I think, to be forced to maintain a conversation with someone who is a total stranger."
Constance paused, obviously expecting some response from her guest, but Noelle retained her stony silence. There was a tiny narrowing at the corners of Constance's eyes, but then she continued with her monologue, her manner as charming as it had been when Noelle first entered the room. "Let me acquaint you with our routine so that you'll be comfortable here. Breakfast is served in your room whenever you call for it. Lunch is at one and dinner at seven. We have both in the dining room. Tea is at four. I want you to rest and enjoy yourself while you're visiting, my dear. Feel free to explore the house and the gardens. They are lovely now as the buds just begin to unfold."
Noelle could stand Constance's hypocrisy no longer. "You broke our agreement," she declared flatly.
"Oh?" Constance regarded Noelle with an expression that was faintly quizzical, but otherwise she seemed totally unruffled by the accusation.
Noelle's enormous eyes were hard and angry from the hurt that ached inside her. More than anything she wanted to lash out at this woman, to challenge her. You had no right to talk about me as you did! I don't need your charity. I can take care of myself.
But the words remained unspoken. Instead, she glared coldly at Constance. "You told Letty who I am. She called me 'Mrs. Copeland' when she brought my breakfast tray this morning. We had an agreement, and you have broken it."
Constance regarded Noelle calmly. "I did not tell Letty who you are. She must have overheard part of our conversation in the library."
Uncertain whether or not Constance was telling the truth, Noelle pressed her attack. "Nevertheless, you promised me that no one would know I am his wife. Now everyone will know."
"No, they won't, Noelle."
"And just how are you going to manage that?" Her tone was venomous. Noelle thought she saw hurt reflected in Constance's eyes, and for an instant she was confused. Don't be a fool, she scolded herself. This woman is as gifted an actress as any on the London stage. She has no real feelings.
As if confirming Noelle's opinion, Constance dropped her eyes and calmly retied a ribbon that had come undone at the front of her robe. When she spoke, it was dispassionately.
"Only Letty and Mrs. Finch, the woman who serves as my housekeeper and cook, know who you are, and even they do not know of your past. They have both been with me for some time and are completely trustwor
thy. I will instruct Mrs. Finch as to how I want your presence explained to the rest of the staff. You may be assured that within forty-eight hours, the story I have fabricated will have been discussed in every household throughout the countryside."
"What kind of story?" Noelle asked suspiciously.
"You are to be Simon's niece, Noelle Dorian," Constance began.
Noelle interrupted abruptly. "No, I don't want anyone to know my real name."
"Very well. Perhaps you could use Dorian for your first name, then. It has a rather aristocratic ring, I think. It will also be easier for you to answer to a familiar name."
Constance took Noelle's silence for consent. "Now, for a last name . . ." She tapped the side of her chin with a slim finger as she considered the possibilities.
"Pope. Dorian Pope." It was a statement, not a request.
Constance smiled responsively. "Perfect, absolutely perfect. How did you ever think of it?"
"It's the name of someone I once knew."
Constance wisely refrained from asking any questions, although her curiosity was piqued. "All right. You are Simon's niece, Dorian Pope, the stepchild of his brother. Actually, Simon has no brother, but, then, no one in London knows that." Rising from her chaise, she walked about the room as she narrated the story, gesturing gracefully with her hands.
"You were born in India. When you were small, your father was killed in a border skirmish. Later, Simon's brother, who was an engineer in the East India Company, married your mother. You lived in India all of your life until only a few months ago, when your stepfather and then your mother died in a cholera epidemic. You were also stricken and came close to dying.
"Simon has asked me to keep you here so you can recover from your illness and the tragic loss of your beloved parents in a peaceful atmosphere. You, of course, must have total rest and quiet; therefore, it is quite impossible for you to receive." Constance smiled. "I think that's a nice touch, don't you?"