She licked her thumb and spat through the window at the crowd that had assembled to watch and offer rude suggestions. Before anyone could retaliate for being spat upon, Monsieur tapped the roof with his walking cane and the coach bolted forward.
The coachman opened a small door and peered down at them, lifting both eyebrows. “Where to, gov’nor?”
“To Lady Katherine Paget in Grosvenor Square,” Monsieur ordered grandly.
The coachman stared. His protruding eye swept the company. “Yer had yer little jest, gov, now where do ye want to go?”
Monsieur’s stare met the eye watching them. “We are expected. Be off with you or my companion”—he inclined his wig toward Mouton—“shall become very angry.”
The peeking eye fixed on Mouton, on the old rope burn circling Mouton’s throat, on the scars webbing outward from his waistcoat. Mouton curled his lip back from his teeth, then the door banged shut and the coachman’s whip cracked smartly.
“God’s green balls! Bloody, bloody hell!” Blu rubbed her gloves over her skirts, wadded fistfuls of material in her hands, let them go, shuffled her feet, rubbed her nose. “For the price of a sneeze, I’d turn myself around. Dammit.”
Isabelle squeezed her glove, Mouton spoke soothing words with his hands. Nothing helped.
Chewing her lips, Blu gazed out the coach window. She didn’t observe a soul dressed like any of them. No woman on the street wore a bodice as low-cut as her own and Isabelle’s. A few curls showed beneath caps, but no one wore her hair loose, dropping to her waist. She didn’t glimpse a petticoat, not one, that even approached the size of her pannier. And, once outside Covent Garden, she did not observe a single woman wearing patches. No man in sight was as colorful as Monsieur. And of course, there was no one like Mouton. With each observation, her heart sank lower.
However, she did retain the presence of mind to also take note that no woman wore kicks and a man’s shirt and boots. It appeared likely that she was woefully out of fashion, but at least she would not disgrace herself entirely. At least she could take some comfort, however small, in being gowned as a woman.
“Do remember to curtsy,” Monsieur instructed. Blu glanced at him, hearing the thinness of nerves in his voice. Recognizing that Monsieur—Monsieur himself—experienced anxiety carne near to undoing her. “If tea or coffee is offered, drink it down before requesting gin or ale. Do not spit on the floor unless permission is granted first. Do not wipe your hands or nose on the table linen. Remain standing until Her Ladyship grants permission to be seated. If you must pass wind, move three steps away from the nearest person before taking your ease.” He mopped his forehead and muttered unhappily. “Mon Dieu, I have forgotten so much!”
Much too soon the coach halted before a row of terrace houses, but no one inside the coach rushed to venture out.
Silently, Blu peered from the window. The terrace houses surrounded a paved square, in the center of which was an enormous circle planted with formal squares and triangles of shrubs and flowers cut through by walkways. No one walked in the sterile-looking garden. The square was deserted.
“Do you suppose she’s gone?” Blu whispered.
“Someone will be in.” Monsieur and Mouton alighted and coaxed Blu out, then set her on her feet in front of the center terrace house. Craning her neck, she looked up at four stories of brick and rows of narrow windows, as forbidding an edifice as she ever hoped to see. Swallowing hard, she briefly closed her eyes and reminded herself it was Lady Katherine who had much to answer for, not herself.
“Lord on a plank, I never sweated so much in my life! Do I smell like a goat?” she demanded of Isabelle.
“Only a little.”
Monsieur waved them forward to the door as the coachman sped away, staring back at them. After a final inspection through his cracked lens, Monsieur offered an impressive wrist flourish, then tugged the bell cord.
“I... shall... die... of... nerves!” Blu gasped. Of a sudden her heart was pounding like a drummer’s stick and she could not breathe. The scurvy corset squeezed her body in a death grip, strangling the life out of her.
After a moment Monsieur pulled the cord again. They could hear a bell pealing into the silence within. Then the door swung open and Blu’s innards surged into her throat.
“Surely that cannot be her?” she gasped.
The woman standing before them, her faded blue eyes as large as doubloons, impressed Blu as being ancient. Wrinkled pleats seamed her cheeks and throat. Wisps of yellowish white hair floated from beneath the cap on her head. Her small figure was draped in rose silk that matched the color she had rubbed into her lips.
As they watched, her wide eyes moved over them one by one. Tiny liverish hands fluttered about her breast like spotted birds. A strangled sound erupted as she peered at Isabelle, whose breast had popped free of its constraints. “Oh dear, oh my dear.” She swayed on her feet and one of the little bird hands trembled upward to her lips as she hastily turned to Blu and Monsieur, examining their clothing and heavily rouged faces. “Oh my. Lordy, Lord!” Then her gaze widened on Mouton’s oiled and gleaming body. She sucked in a horrified breath, stared at his scars, at his gold earring. “You’ve come to murder us all!”
Her eyes rolled upward until only the whites could be seen. Then she emitted a gargling sound and dropped in a faint across the threshold.
Blu peered down at the woman. “What do we do now?” She leaned to one side, seeking Monsieur’s guidance as did the others.
Monsieur studied the woman sprawled at his feet and reflected. “I believe it would be considered rude to remain standing on Lady Katherine’s doorstep,” Monsieur assured them after a moment. The indecision in his tone did not inspire confidence. “The door has been opened to us; I think that may be construed as an invitation. Yes, I believe we should continue inside. Do go along.” He waved them forward.
If Monsieur insisted this was proper procedure, who was Blu to doubt? After turning herself sideways to fit the pannier through the door, she raised her hem and felt for the woman with the toe of her slipper. When she encountered a body, she stepped over it, unavoidably dragging her skirts across the fallen woman. The others stepped over and followed her inside.
“Mouton, I think you should fetch her inside,” Blu instructed after a glance to Monsieur for approval.
“Indeed. It does seem the proper thing.”
Bending, Mouton hoisted the tiny woman over his shoulder. A burping sound issued from her lips and she appeared to rouse for an instant. Raising her head, she blinked down at the tiled floor, peered at Mouton’s oiled back, then she shrieked and went limp again.
They stood together in a tight group and gazed about them in uneasy awe. Lady Katherine’s entry was enormous, fully half the size of Beau Billy’s great hall. It seemed to Blu that acres of black and white tile stretched in every direction. Scattered here and there were elegantly curved tables, upon which rested painted vases containing sprays of dried or fresh flowers. A massive crystal chandelier hung suspended above them. Polished wooden doors led away from the foyer and a curving staircase swept to the floor above.
Blu’s gaze followed the staircase upward to the gallery and she sucked in a sharp breath as a woman emerged, halting abruptly at sight of them. This, then, was her mother. A red haze dropped over her vision and she thought she would faint.
Lady Katherine Anne Paget also gasped and raised a slender hand to the pulse beating against her throat. They had arrived. This had to be them. Reaching for the banister, she steadied herself and restrained a compelling instinct to order them from her home. Never had such a motley collection disgraced her foyer. Slowly, her gaze swept the incredible gathering staring up at her.
The whore—for surely the woman had to be a whore—unbelievably, unthinkably, had one enormous breast hanging over the top of her bodice. Katherine swayed on the steps. Never in her life had she observed anyone wearing as many patches. The creature wore an entire patch box on her face and breasts. She
thanked heaven Walter Paget had not lived to witness the sight of a half-naked whore attempting to curtsy in his foyer.
Swallowing a rising bubble of hysteria, she gripped the banister and looked next at the diminutive man in the enormous fuzzed wig and bright mismatched clothing. As she watched, he smiled up at her through shattered spectacles, then dipped his bandy legs in a bow that would have dropped the horrible wig to the tiles had he not clamped a hand to it. A cloud of cheap chalk powder puffed up around his gloves and drifted toward the tiles.
When she opened her eyes again, she blinked at Mouton. She remembered Mouton from the Mound all those years ago, and recalled his kindness. But she had forgotten how massive and ugly he was, how menacing. It was small wonder that Aunt Tremble, whom Mouton carried slung over his shoulder, had fainted. Poor Tremble would have been terrified by the sight of Mouton’s scars and threatening ugliness. Silently, he greeted Katherine with his hands and inclined his oiled head.
Finally, finally she made herself look at the daughter she had thought never to see again.
Her daughter was beautiful. At least the potential for beauty existed. At present the girl’s face was rouged to the point where she appeared ill and feverish, her eyes fixed and staring. Her hands were tanned dark by the sun and curled into fists. The outlandish costume she wore defied description. Katherine recognized the gown as French, a court gown never intended to be seen outside a ballroom. And years outdated. Blusette’s hair was, shockingly, worn loose to her waist. And covered by a morning cap. The whole was appallingly outrageous.
But she was beautiful, and for that Katherine felt an unexpected burst of pride. And memory. For she realized immediately she would be unable to look upon this young woman without recalling William Morgan, because there was nothing of herself in Blusette’s appearance. The girl had inherited Billy’s dark vivid coloring. Billy’s bold eyes. Billy’s wide expressive mouth. As Blusette bent into a slow, almost insolent, curtsy, Katherine recognized Billy’s natural undisciplined grace and proud carriage. Her fingers tightened on the banister and the knuckles turned white.
“God’s balls,” Blu whispered, holding her mother’s stare. Would the woman ever speak or no? Wetting her lips, she continued to stare upward, not knowing what was expected. She knew she was behaving rudely and should drop her gaze, but she could not.
Lady Katherine Paget was all Blu had expected and nothing she had expected. There was about her the same disdain and hauteur Blu had observed in my lady Newcastle, and Blu felt as diminished now as she had when my Lady Newcastle’s gaze swept over and dismissed her. It was plain in Lady Katherine’s gaze that she felt herself sullied in the presence of those who looked upon her, that she stood so far above them as to be unapproachable.
What Blu had not expected was to discover her mother was a beauty. On Morgan’s Mound, women aged rapidly from the effects of scorching sun and a hard life. But Lady Katherine seemed untouched by age. She appeared a good ten or fifteen years younger than Blu knew her to be.
If any gray marred the golden halo crowning Lady Katherine’s head, Blu could not observe it. Her mother’s throat was long and slender, her eyes the clear blue of a tropical sky. Pale roses bloomed on skin as smooth and delicate as fine porcelain. She wore a pale green gown fashioned of silk so light it appeared to float when she moved.
Their eyes held as they took one another’s measure.
Within seconds, Btu understood Lady Katherine Paget was no vaporous sheep-livered creature. Strength and determination steadied her gaze. No hint of apology could be discerned therein. This was a woman who gave no quarter. Contrary to everything Blu had expected, Lady Katherine Paget was not meek, cowardly, mild, or indecisive. This was a lady worthy of the name. And she rejected Blu. Blu felt it, saw it, understood she was not wanted.
Devastation bowed her head and for one terrible moment, she did not know if her shaking legs could rise from her curtsy. The weight of her disappointment was too great. Only now did she admit that somewhere in the hidden depths of her heart she had longed for a joyful reunion. She had prayed this cool golden woman would rush to embrace her; she had hoped an instant history would miraculously spring up between them and they could be as mothers and daughters should be. Affectionate, warm, at ease with one another.
Instead, Lady Katherine appeared to gather herself together. She lifted her skirts and descended the staircase with a purposeful step. Nothing in her implacable expression suggested the moment might have been emotional.
Pausing at the base of the staircase, she inclined her golden head to Mouton and the merest whisper of a smile touched her lips. Then she fixed a cool gaze on Monsieur.
“You would be Monsieur.”
“Your Ladyship.” After performing an elaborate flourish, Monsieur bent low in another bow, securing his wig amid an eruption of powder. A bright flush appeared beneath his rouge, brought on by infatuation or adulation. Blu did not know which, but either disgusted her. “May I present Isabelle Sanchez, Miss Morgan’s personal maid.”
Hastily Isabelle adjusted her bodice before she dipped into a tottering curtsy. Eyes fixed on Lady Katherine, she surreptitiously picked off a patch or two, hiding them in her mouth.
“You are acquainted with Mouton,” Monsieur continued. He drew a breath, mopped loose powder and sweat from his temple, then announced in a proud and dramatic tone, “And this is your daughter, Blusette Morgan!”
Seen at close quarters, Blu decided Lady Katherine’s hair resembled spun gold. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. Her blue, blue gaze was direct and noncommittal. For an instant they regarded one another, then Lady Katherine brushed past Blu and tugged a gold ring sewn to the bottom of a velvet strip.
Instantly, doors flew open along the foyer and a man wearing green and gold livery appeared, his dignity shattering when he observed the creatures in the foyer. The two women, maids from their dress, halted in their tracks and their eye’s widened.
“Out!” the liveried man cried, rushing forward. “Outside at once! How dare you riffraff invade Lady—”
“Mr. Apple, these people are my guests,” Lady Katherine interrupted coolly. Mr. Apple’s jaw dropped in disbelief. The maids’ eyes protruded in astonishment. “Upstairs,” Lady Katherine ordered the maids. “Have you lost what wits you have? The gentlemen shall have the green suite. The... ladies... shall take the rose suite. Off with you.” The maids scurried up the staircase, casting backward glances over their shoulders. “Mr. Apple, I shall want a word with you when our guests are settled. You shall explain why Lady Tremble must open the street door instead of yourself.” Mr. Apple paled and visibly withered under Lady Katherine’s glance. Turning, she nodded to Mouton. “Take Aunt Tremble upstairs, if you please. Mr. Apple will show you to Tremble’s chamber and summon her maid. Mr. Apple, you will instruct Mr. Blem to fetch our guests’ baggage inside. If you will follow me,” she finished, her gaze resting briefly on Isabelle, “I shall show you to your chambers.”
Everyone surged toward the staircase, leaving Blu standing alone, feeling abandoned and forgotten. Her heart hammered so heavily, she thought everyone must hear. Lifting her head, she bit her lip and gazed at the staircase as if it were a mountain to scale. What with the bloody corset and the breathlessness that had descended at sight of her mother, the effort seemed daunting.
In contrast, no trace of disturbance marred Lady Katherine’s countenance. She had swept down the stairs as if this were not an historic encounter but merely a distasteful duty to be dispatched with swift efficiency. Like a general, she had assumed command and within moments everyone was scurrying to obey, the situation well in hand.
When she gained the first landing, Lady Katherine paused to gaze over the railing at Blu. Though she spoke not a word, her glance conveyed the message that Blu could stand on the tiles forever or she could join the others. Lady Katherine cared not which.
A rush of heat fired Blu’s cheeks. A pox on Her Ladyship. Lifting her skirts, she grimly ascended the stair
case and silently followed the others down a wide corridor, halting before polished facing doors.
“The green suite,” Lady Katherine said, indicating Monsieur should enter. Immediately he erupted into gurgling rapture. “The rose suite,” Lady Katherine said next, turning to the opposing side of the corridor. One of the maids, who continued to stare at Isabelle with a mixture of horror and fascination, dipped a curtsy and opened the door.
Blu drew a sharp breath and stood transfixed at sight of the rose suite. Never had she imagined such elegance and beauty. Silent and awed, she gingerly stepped forward and extended a trembling hand to the bedpost. The bed was dressed in deep rose with delicate pale pink curtains falling around it. A rose and navy carpet lay under her slippers. The walls were hung with watered silk and the draperies were maroon velvet. This room, too, had a fireplace in it. And paintings on the walls. And chairs, more chairs than ever Blu had seen in her life or imagined to exist. And small polished items here and there which she did not recognize and feared to touch.
“I trust you find the accommodations suitable?” Lady Katherine’s tone suggested she knew full well Blu had never before seen or imagined such a chamber.
In different circumstances, Blu would have been quick to take offense. But she felt like a clipped bird, wounded and out of her element. Feeling shaky inside, she recognized this as Lady Katherine’s territory, not hers. She stood deep within the enemy camp, defenseless and at the mercy of this cool-eyed stranger, while her innards churned and whirled and gave her no peace in which to think.
She wet her lips and turned to face Lady Katherine, not knowing what she would say.
Before she could frame a word a young woman appeared at Lady Katherine’s side. She was perhaps a year or two older than Blu and was seated in a wheeled chair pushed by a maidservant. Her eyes were as cornflower-blue as Lady Katherine’s and her curls as golden bright. The two women were as alike as two coconuts except Lady Katherine’s beauty was strong and vibrant where the younger woman’s beauty was pale and fragile. An eager curiosity warmed the young woman’s shy smile.
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