by Joan Smith
“I like it very much, but my hair won’t go like that,” was Martha’s innocent reply.
“Hair is like men. We shall persuade it,” Cecilia laughed, and put the girl into a chair, tied a towel about her shoulders, and began snipping. “I know precisely how this is done, for we had the coiffeur do it to the bride for her wedding, and I asked him to teach me. It is all the crack, I promise you.” As she talked, she snipped, till a circle of burnt ends littered the floor.
The next step was to set the curls in papers, and for this chore Miss Miser was called upon. While Martha sat saying “ouch” at frequent intervals, for Miss Miser had a hard hand and pulled till the scalp stung, Alice was taken in hand by Cecilia. Various lotions and unguents were applied to her freckles, finishing with a light coating of rice powder. The freckles did not vanish in one treatment, but they had been softened and did not look unsightly.
While Martha’s hair was setting, the sisters were led to their wardrobes to present their gowns for inspection. Some were approved, some were cast aside, and some hung up for alterations, mostly the removal of superfluous gewgaws. The conclusion—music to the girls’ ears—was that they needed three new gowns each. In Martha’s case especially, the style was to be radically altered.
“You are going on twenty-one now, Martha,” Cecilia pointed out, “and are old enough to display a little flair, a little sophistication.” The fashion magazines were brought forth again, and by dint of repetition and encouragement, Martha was made to realize she could wear something besides pastel colors, laden with ribbons and lace.
“For the next assembly, why do we not have this one made up in a deep royal blue, with that lovely white-fringed shawl you showed me earlier,” Cecilia suggested, pointing to the picture of an elegant gown.
Martha examined the picture uncertainly. “But it’s so plain on top, with no lace at the neck.”
“The better to show off your figure, my dear,” Cecilia said frankly. “No one hides her light under a bushel, nor under a clutch of lace and flowers either, if she is clever. These cleaner lines are the highest kick of fashion in London.”
Martha worried her lips and frowned. “The color is so dark. I usually wear pink or yellow...”
“I’m sure you looked charming in those colors when you were younger, but you are a woman now. If you wish Mr. Dallan to take note of the fact, you must look the part, for it seems Mr. Dallan can hardly see what is before his eyes, let alone being hidden from them by countrified fashion.”
Mrs. Meacham received a questioning glance from her elder daughter. The mother had put her faith in Cecilia and was in a rollicking good mood at what she had witnessed thus far. “In for a penny, in for a pound. Do as she says.”
“And you, Alice,” Cecilia continued, “shall wear a white gown with pink ribbons and a few pink rosebuds. I know, you are going to tell me you cannot wear pink with your red hair, but your hair is not red. It is strawberry blond, and pink looks very good on a young girl. And do, for goodness’ sake, Martha, take your finger out of your mouth,” she said sharply to the elder, for the finger had again found its way into that orifice. Martha withdrew the offending finger and looked apologetic.
The morning passed quickly. The gentlemen did not deign to make an appearance, Tuesday or not. The afternoon was to be spent in selecting material for the new gowns. Martha’s curls were not set as tightly as they wished, but the papers were removed anyway, for she would not miss out on the shopping, and she was happy with the result. While adding a much needed air of fashion, they also revealed the pretty contours of her cheeks and jaws.
“My head feels so light,” she said, and laughed in pleasure, as she examined herself in the mirror.
Mrs. Meacham accompanied them on the shopping trip. They spent a pleasant hour in Morrisey’s shop, the largest store in the village. It sold draperies and trimmings, gloves and shoes, and was a haberdashery besides. The ladies spent a long time mulling over the fabrics and trims, and meeting friends. Mrs. Meacham got caught up in the excitement and was coerced into buying an ell of ecru crepe for herself. “I no more need it than I need a cold in the head,” she asserted, but she smiled as the material was measured out.
It was while they were shopping that a tall, dark gentleman strolled into the store and stood, waiting impatiently to be served. With the important matter of competition for the girls’ suitors in mind, Cecilia examined him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye. He must be married, was her immediate conclusion, or Mrs. Meacham would have mentioned him.
Everything about the man was of the first stare, from his stylish barbering to his blue jacket of superfine, to his fawn trousers and polished Hessians. Cecilia moved along to a box of buttons at that end of the counter that would permit her to see his face. He was a little older than she had first thought, but not too old to provide some competition.
Fine lines traced a path across the forehead of a weathered face. Dark eyes, a strong aquiline nose, a squared jaw and chin, gave an impression of masculine strength. It was the infinitely bored expression that suggested arrogance. One would think to look at him that he had been waiting a fortnight to be served, instead of two minutes. Cecilia failed to notice the dotted Belcher at his throat.
“I have come to pick up the York tan gloves I was fitted for, Mr. Taylor,” he called impatiently over the ladies’ heads, in a voice of authority. There was that in his voice that said, Heed me. I am a man and too busy to wait while these ladies chatter amongst themselves.
That he ordered his gloves custom-made told Cecilia he was not an ordinary customer. She waited to hear if the clerk used the man’s name, but he didn’t. He just nodded and went to find the gloves. She decided to approach the counter, for she must certainly hear his name when he paid or see it when he signed the account. As she turned, the corner of her reticule caught the tip of the button box and sent it flying across the room. Dozens of bone buttons skittered and bounced across the floor.
“How clumsy of me!” she exclaimed.
The man turned and saw her for the first time. Ignoring the buttons, he examined her face for longer than was quite polite. His penetrating stare took in every feature of her face before flickering quickly down over her gown and even her feet. Cecilia boldly returned stare for stare.
Cecilia was just beginning to feel a stir of anger at his prolonged examination when he smiled and stepped forward. “Allow me,” he said, and reached down to retrieve the box. A nice smile, she thought, and nice manners, too, despite that touch of arrogance.
Mr. Taylor came hurrying forward to assure them the shop boy would pick up the buttons. “You are come for your gloves, sir. Sorry to keep you waiting.” Mr. Taylor’s manner confirmed for Cecilia that the customer was a valued one. She waited with rising interest to hear his name.
“Let the young lady go first,” the man said in a well-modulated voice and a perfectly civil tone.
“No, no. You are in a hurry. You go first,” Cecilia said.
“I am not in that great a hurry—now.” He added the last word deliberately, while his smile told her he wished to prolong the chance meeting.
“You must not wait on me,” she said. “I have been here an age and may be another half hour yet. My friends are buying a great many things.”
“I’ll just get your gloves,” Mr. Taylor said, and darted off.
She was now alone with the stranger, and as the buttons had acted as a sort of introduction, she had no thought of retiring, but rather wished to learn more of him than that he favored a York tan glove. He smiled once again, and when she returned the compliment, he ventured to say, “Are you a tourist in the village, ma’am? You cannot be a resident, for I am a native myself and don’t recognize you.”
Her hopes soared to hear he lived nearby. His manner, that had a touch of flirtation, suggested he was either a bachelor or an unconscionable flirt.
“I am visiting my cousins, the Meachams,” she replied with no hesitation. “Perhaps you are acquaint
ed with them? That is the family over there.” She pointed to the fabrics section, where the ladies were still busy, though sparing curious glances at Cecilia.
He turned and looked at the group. “I am a little acquainted with Mrs. Meacham. Are those her daughters?”
“Yes.”
“They have grown up since last I saw them. Do you make a long visit?” He showed no interest whatsoever in the daughters.
“I have not determined the length of my visit. Of course, I must be in London for at least part of the Season.”
“I hope your visit will not be too brief,” he said. “May I hope we meet again—at the local assembly, perhaps?”
“I cannot prevent your hoping,” she replied archly.
“You can prevent my hoping in vain.”
“I shall certainly attend the assembly.” The next step would surely be an exchange of names. Just before it occurred, Mr. Taylor returned.
“Here are your gloves, milord,” he said, handing them over. “Perhaps you would like to slip them on.”
The man turned away from Cecilia, for which she was grateful. She would not want him to see her goggling like a provincial. Milord! Was he one of the Lowreys Mrs. Meacham had mentioned? The daughter was spoken of as Lady Faith, so her brother—if she had a brother—would be a lord. While her mind roiled with possibilities, the sale of the gloves continued.
“These seem fine,” the man said.
“Just flex your fingers, Lord Wickham, and see if the fingers are roomy enough for driving.”
Lord Wickham! Cecilia was shocked to the marrow of her bones that this fine buck was none other than the cause of all the marital problems, her Napoleon. She had expected an older, more dissipated gentleman. And after hearing his views on ladies, she had certainly not expected to be favored with any flirtation. Yet her face showed no trace of her astonishment. She even held her ground, to see if she could discover anything more of him.
“I am happy to hear you will be at the assembly. I hope you will save me a dance,” Lord Wickham said, as he flexed his hand within the glove.
“I look forward to it.” Cecilia smiled.
Then he turned to the clerk. “These are fine. Just put them on my account.” The clerk left; there was really nothing more to keep Lord Wickham in the shop, but still he lingered. “If you have been listening at all, you now know my name. Will you not buy a few buttons so that Mr. Taylor can reveal yours?” he asked. Definitely the man was flirting with her and doing it very well, too, for a gentleman who had the reputation of disliking proper ladies.
“Why it is no secret, milord. I am Miss Cummings.”
“Miss Cummings.” He bowed formally. “It has been a great pleasure to make your acquaintance. I look forward to renewing it in the near future.”
As he had bowed, Cecilia curtsied and smiled, but did not make any verbal reply. Lord Wickham left, and she was immediately joined by the entire Meacham family.
“That was him!” Mrs. Meacham exclaimed, in a voice loud enough to turn heads two aisles away. “He bowed on his way out, and said, ‘How do you do, ma’am.’ Fancy!” As it was the greatest recognition he had bestowed on her since his return, she was much taken with it. Cecilia thought the lady was easily pleased, if this scanty recognition was to undo the harm of a year’s neglect and mischief to her daughters’ suitors.
“Pray, lower your voice, Cousin,” Cecilia urged.
The whole group thronged to the window, hoping for a glimpse of either black stallion or blue phaeton. Lord Wickham retired on foot, robbing them of the pleasure. “Upon my word, that was very civil of him,” Mrs. Meacham continued. “And he smiled, too. He cannot be as bad as everyone says.”
“We shall soon know. He plans to attend the next assembly and has asked me to give him a dance.”
Such a marvelous piece of news could not be digested in silence. “Cecilia! You never mean it! Did you hear that, girls? He has his eye on your cousin, you may lay your life on it. Here we have been racking our useless brains all night trying to scheme how to meet him—”
Cecilia took her arm and bustled her into an empty aisle, but still she rattled on. “The very first day you are here, not in the village twenty-four hours till you have met him. Did you get his measure?”
“Only his hand,” Cecilia laughed. “It looked like a size nine glove, but as to the rest of it, it must wait till the assembly. And now, if you are finished shopping, we must have these materials taken home and call in the dressmaker.”
“Lord Wickham never attends the assemblies,” Martha said.
“He’ll attend this one,” Cecilia replied, and laughed an exultant little laugh.
Chapter Four
Such a magnificent conquest as Cecilia’s getting Lord Wickham to speak to her kept her in high aroma at Meacham’s, and a discussion of it helped pass the time till the spring assembly on Friday evening. The week passed pleasantly in preparation for the dance, with gowns to have made up, new hairdos to perfect, and some little coaching in deportment.
Martha would persist in chewing her nails to the quick, and Alice had a sad tendency to swagger like a gentleman when she walked, instead of swaying like a lady. To correct the former, Martha had her finger soaked in pine spirits, and to improve the latter, Alice was required to walk back and forth in the Gold Saloon with Guthrie’s Geography balanced on her head. The saloon reverberated with the thump of the book hitting the floor. Its spine was broken and its cover dog-eared after two days.
The girls’ self-confidence was bolstered by an unaccustomed shower of compliments, and in spite of a certain reluctance to leave the house in the morning, they were obliged to do so by their cousin Cecilia. This last ploy was futile as the week passed without a single glimpse of their beaux.
Kate Daugherty came and was presented to Cecilia, and she, too, was set in line to bring her fellow under control. She had not the full benefit of Miss Cummings’s talents as she lived under a different roof, but she was a fast learner, and without a lesson, her walk improved. She was taught to apply her rouge much more discreetly. Its use was not discouraged as her complexion was on the sallow side. Not a tallow-faced girl, just pale from lack of exercise. She was undertaking a two mile walk a day to overcome her problem, and in the interval, a judicious use of the rouge pot concealed her lack of color.
Friday came faster than seemed possible. Cecilia did not bother to haul the girls from the house in the morning. She had given up on teaching the gentlemen a lesson by that method so that they were all four, including Mrs. Meacham, sitting in the Gold Saloon when the suitors were announced. Cecilia regretted there was not time to hustle the girls upstairs and pretend they weren’t at home. On the whole, she was happy to have a look at the beaux before the assembly. She soon discovered that Henley Dallan was the more in need of a lesson than the other.
He was older, better looking, and more full of his own consequence than Wideman. Cecilia thought him a sort of caricature of Lord Wickham—less tall, less dark, much less elegant, but of the same general type. He swaggered in with his shoulders back, a loose curl falling over his forehead, and a Belcher kerchief of exotic hues around his neck. Both gentlemen, Miss Cummings noted with a lifted eyebrow, chose to pay their visit in buckskins and top boots.
No sooner were introductions made than Miss Cummings began her attack. “You gentlemen are kind to take a minute off from work to drop in. I see by your outfits you were not planning a morning call.” She looked at their clothes as if they were a pair of scarecrows.
Wideman, a shorter gentleman with sandy hair and hazel eyes, had the grace to blush and pull at the ends of his kerchief. Dallan did no more than slide a lazy brown eye in her direction and smile condescendingly. “Just so,” he remarked, in a voice that held something of a sneer.
The promise of a skirmish evaporated. Wideman, who had been looking intently at Alice ever since his entrance, now spoke up. “You look different, Alice,” he decided at last. Alice patted her hair, now arranged in a
basket of curls held by a blue satin ribbon, and said nothing. “Better,” George added.
“I am trying a new hairdo,” she said offhandedly.
“I think you are, too, Miss Meacham,” George said, turning to observe the elder sister. Henley had not condescended to remark on the change.
“I have had my hair cut,” Martha replied, with a shy smile at Dallan.
“Some idiot recommended a metal curling iron to poor Miss Meacham,” Cecilia announced, well aware that Dallan was responsible. “They were thought to be a marvel some years ago. Everyone has found them to be a disaster.”
Dallan said nothing, but let his gaze wander out the window while he played off his airs. He brought forth an enameled snuffbox and applied a pinch to his nose. A theatrical sneeze followed, and a casual, “Excuse.” The insolent set of his head and his way of ignoring the group angered Miss Cummings. She wanted to give him a good setdown before he left, and he was already fidgeting impatiently. From the height of his shirt collars and the cut of his jacket, she knew him for an aspiring dandy and hit him in his weakest spot, his personal vanity. Alice soon gave her a nice lead-in by saying to George that she had a new gown for the assembly.
“What a time we had finding a good dressmaker,” Cecilia said. “And I see that you gentlemen also have difficulty in finding a decent tailor.” She looked narrowly at Mr. Dallan’s jacket as she spoke and gave him a smile of sympathy, though she recognized the work of Stultz at a glance.
“Fact,” he agreed lazily. “I have all my jackets made up in London. Old Haggerty has no idea how to cut a jacket properly.” He tugged at his sleeves as he spoke.
This loud cry for a compliment was ignored. “For hacking about the countryside, the jacket you are wearing is good enough,” she said leniently. “And of course you had not planned to call, or you would have changed. May we look forward to seeing one of your London jackets at the assembly, Mr. Dallan?”