Her mother’s smile was one Bridget had never seen before. For a moment it was as if Bridget was looking at a strange woman—a beautiful woman who understood men far more than Bridget did. Natasha sighed. “Ah, yes, I know what he means. We will not find what you want in any establishment but one.” She leaned to open the door and called up to the driver. “The Gable House on Grand Parade, please.”
The Gable House was a private home, a large one, with a circular drive and a fountain in the middle of it. The white columns and high windows were elegant, the extensive gardens intriguing.
Inside was another fountain, right in the middle of the stunning front hall. It tinkled and rushed, while a magnificent woman with silver hair and a young face came down the marble stairs to greet them.
Bridget stared at her. She was dressed in the most fashionable of morning gowns with a high neck and long sleeves. Not a button was out of place and not an inch more bust or flesh showing than one ought to show at that time of day. The cloth and the colors were not lurid and her jewelry was decorous. No detail about the woman’s clothing could be called improper, yet the overall impression was of a woman who was far more alluring than any other Bridget had met.
Bridget could easily see men tripping over themselves to kiss her hand and fight duels over her. The lady had the elegance and sophistication that some women seemed to be born with, that Bridget had failed to acquire despite her own mother’s famous beauty and grace. Bridget had decided long ago that she had too much of her father in her. Seth had not been known for his urbane charm or his good looks.
“Madam Therion, I do apologize for calling unannounced,” Natasha said. “We have a problem that needs solving. This is my daughter, Lady Bridget.”
“Lady Bridget, you are welcome in my house,” Madame Therion said with a mild French accent, her gaze flicking over Bridget from head to foot. “This is your problem, ‘tasha?” she added, glancing at Bridget’s mother.
Bridget was startled. She had never heard anyone shorten her mother’s name in that way.
Natasha did not seem offended by the shortening or by the fact that Madame Therion had called Bridget a problem. “Bridget wishes to display her full potential and is not sure how to do that.”
“Ah…” Madame Therion nodded, as if she understood exactly what was in Bridget’s mind and heart. “That is a problem easily fixed with a few minor adjustments.” She walked right around Bridget, taking in every aspect, then lifted her chin to study her face. “The foundations are there, certainly.” She smiled at Bridget. “For so many women, it is like building a palace upon a bog. It is doomed to fail, no? While you are good earth. It will be done.” Madame Therion turned on her heel, her long back hem sweeping around in a sinuous curve. “Come along.”
She led them up the stairs and into a magnificent drawing room that made Bridget gasp. There were too many details to absorb, from the gleaming windows and velvet drapes, to the striped salon chairs, the tall vases of roses and trailing ivy and the dazzling brightness of the room.
Her gaze settled, instead, on a woman standing by the big windows with a tape measure about her neck, a pair of pince-nez on the end of her nose and a dozen pins pressed between her lips. She was draping a gown on the model in front of her. The gown was a stunning deep blue satin with silver and white trimming that caught Bridget’s breath with the simple beauty of it.
This gown had the quality that Bridget had been searching for. She had no idea why this gown was any different from the others she had seen this morning, yet it was.
“You like, no?” Madam Therion asked, moving over to the model and touched the slender shoulder of the gown.
“I do,” Bridget admitted.
“It is not for you, this gown,” Madam Therion told her. “It is completely the wrong color.” She pointed to Bridget’s brown hair. “Your Maman, she could wear this gown, especially now she is a woman d’un certain âge and has the mark of distinction.”
Natasha self-consciously touched her hair, where the white streak ran from her temple up into the coils on top of her head.
“Ah…the repressed English woman,” Madame Therion added, with a soft laugh. She whirled away from the blue satin gown and moved over to a table that had three reading stands sitting on it. All three stands held massive books, laid open. “We must find your best color, Lady Bridget. Then, we will build upon that.”
She beckoned. Bridget moved around the table and looked at the big tome Madame Therion was standing in front of. The book was filled with clippings of fabric, in a dizzying array of colors, arranged by the color spectrum.
“What color do you like?” Madam Therion asked.
“I like green,” Bridget said, pointing to the moss green swatch.
“Ah, see, you have good instincts. That is an excellent color for you. So is this one.” Madame Therion unpinned a strip of satin from the page.
“Pink?” Bridget said doubtfully, wrinkling her nose. Pink was for maidens and little girls. Will had been disdainful of her ‘maiden’ clothes.
Madame Therion laughed. “You do not understand the subtleties of color, little one. Let me demonstrate.” She turned and opened the doors of what Bridget had assumed were library shelves, only when the doors opened, she saw that the shelves were stacked with bolts of cloth. There were wools and tweeds, cashmere and satin, brushed cotton and twills, gaberdines and velvets.
The colors were riotous. There were shades Bridget had never seen before and didn’t know existed.
Not a single bolt of black showed, anywhere on the shelves.
Madam Therion reached for a bolt and slid it out from between the others. It was also satin, a deep cerise color that bore little relationship to pretty, innocent pink. She put the bolt on the table, then plucked another bolt, this one a deep blue brushed cotton that was similar to the dress the seamstresses was working upon by the window.
Madam Therion shook out a handful of yardage of the blue bolt. “Turn and look in the mirror, Lady Bridget.” She pointed to a large, gilded mirror on a stand, also located to take advantage of the light pouring through the big windows.
Bridget moved over to the mirror and Madame Therion draped the blue fabric over her shoulder, covering up her dress and bodice. The fabric framed her face.
“Look at yourself,” Madam Therion encouraged her. “It is the face you see every morning in the mirror, yes?”
“Well…yes.” Bridget bit her lip.
“Do not bite your mouth in that way,” Madam Therion added. “It makes a man think you doubt yourself and your power over him.”
Bridget shifted her gaze to Madam Therion’s reflection, startled. Behind them, Natasha glided up to peer at the reflection, too.
Madam Therion nodded, her pale blue eyes bright with mischief. “You do know what I mean, then. Good. Now…” She whipped the blue fabric away and hurried back to the shelves, rolling it as she walked. She took several more bolts down and fussed with them by the table. “Turn to face the mirror once more,” she instructed.
Bridget turned.
“Consider your face for a moment,” Madam Therion said. She hung a fold of dusky green tweed over Bridget’s shoulders. “Now, see?”
Bridget frowned. There was a difference in the mirror. She couldn’t say what the difference was, exactly. “It is as if I can see myself better. Clearer.”
Madam Therion nodded as she worked on yardage behind Bridget. “Good, yes, you see it. Now…watch.” She lifted the tweed just a little and slid beneath it the cerise satin, folding it so it laid like a border along the folded edge of the tweed.
“Oh!” Bridget breathed, looking in the mirror. The pink and the green together were an odd combination, one she had seen no other woman use, yet on her, it was…
“Your face glows,” Natasha said softly. “It is remarkable, isn’t it?”
“Yes…” Bridget nodded. “Only, I cannot wear pink satin every day of my life.”
“Oh, there are other colors that will
work just as well,” Madame Therion assured her. “We must find them for you. Come along.” She moved back to the big table.
“Is that all there is to it?” Bridget asked, trailing behind her. “It is simply a matter of choosing the right colors?”
“Oh my goodness no!” Madam Therion said, with a laugh that was not a polite chuckle, but a real laugh, that lit up her face and showed all her teeth. The laugh spoke, telling Bridget that Madame Therion knew much more than she was saying and was amused by it. The amusement danced in her eyes.
Men would be intrigued by that, Bridget told herself, studying Madame Therion carefully. Will had been intrigued by what had been hidden beneath her dress, not what was on display… Bridget ran her gaze down Madame Therion’s elegant and perfectly modest dress, noticing for the first time that the French woman had a small bust. It did not seem to make a difference to the overall ensemble. Her waist was shockingly small. the dress seemed to emphasize that, by curving out over her hips. Even the rucking over her hips exaggerated them, Bridget realized. The extra drapes of fabric gave Madame Therion the elegant hourglass shape that men so greatly admired…
Understanding stirred in Bridget. “Show me,” she urged Madame Therion.
* * * * *
Bridget commissioned seven dresses, including a ball gown for a ball to which she had yet to be invited. However, balls were an inevitable part of the season and the gown would not be wasted.
It would take several weeks for the dresses to be ready, although Madam Therion assured Bridget, as she took hundreds of measurements, that the first dress would be rushed.
Madame Therion also suggested new corsetry and linens, to suit the dresses. “A smaller corset is a must. This thing is much too large. Were you never fitted for a corset, my dear?” Madam Therion asked. “I refuse to believe your Maman did not ensure you were.”
“I did,” Natasha said from the striped sofa where she sat watching. “Bridget preferred comfort.”
Bridget bit her lip. She made herself stop by pressing her lips together. “I did,” she admitted. “I didn’t understand at all.”
Madam Therion nodded. “You will find, my dear, that a properly fitting corset is far more comfortable than an oversized one.”
Bridget wasn’t certain about that at all. She was willing to trust Madam Therion for now. The woman had been correct about color, after all.
It was an exhausting day of decisions, all of them fraught with new ideas and understanding. Madame Therion invited them to stay for lunch, while the discussion about elegance and womanly charms continued.
Almost everything the Frenchwoman said startled Bridget and opened new avenues of consideration. The art of charm and its lesser cousin, flirting. The power of a fan to intrigue. Mystery and seduction, also cousins. The female figure and its differences to the manly physique.
“It is the differences that entice a man,” Madame Therion explained. “A woman’s waist is far smaller, her hips far larger and rounder. A man must be strong through the chest and shoulders, while a woman is the complete opposite.” Her hands moved through the air beneath her décolletage, in a graceful curve. “So, we emphasize those differences.”
Bridget nodded. Now that Madame Therion had explained it, it seemed rather obvious.
It helped that she now understood the benefits of enticing a man. All these years, she had thought a man was drawn to a pretty face and a clear complexion, for that was what the ladies’ books always insisted. While a pretty face would not discourage a man, it was far more than just a pretty face that drew men into a woman’s snare.
Bridget studied Madame Therion’s face as she sipped her soup. Bridget had thought her a beautiful woman when she had first come down the marble stairs. Now she realized that Madame Therion was in fact quite plain and her figure was not the buxom one she had first thought…although that did not make a bit of difference. Even an ugly woman could entwine a man with her charms if they were properly presented.
One more visit to Madame Therion’s house was required, the day before Will and Bridget left for Kirkaldy, for last minute measurements and the rough fitting of the first dress.
Then, they left for Scotland.
Vaughn was pleased with the idea that they use Kirkaldy as their residence. “I would be happier knowing the house is being used and cared for,” he said, his hand on Will’s shoulder. “Plus, visiting you will give me an excuse to see the place and smell the highland air.”
They arrived at Kirkaldy in mid-January, with a trunk apiece. Brooks carried Bridget’s jewelry case, her eyes huge as she took in the cold, snow-covered Scottish landscape and the big, old manor nestled up against the base of the crag that gave the house its name.
Bridget had always liked the rambling old house. She looked at it now with new eyes. This was to be her home. Hope soared in her heart.
“Two feet of snow,” Will grumbled, looking about. “That will bring an early end to the pheasant season.” He shrugged. “Ah, well…” He tramped toward the house.
* * * * *
Bridget had thought that married life, especially married to Will, would continue much as they had started. Will had said as much on their wedding night.
After three weeks in the big house, Bridget realized that wouldn’t be the case.
Will left the house every morning, wrapped in a thick coat, gloves, scarf and a woolen hat, muffled to the nose against the cold, so that only his brilliant blue eyes showed. He carried a shotgun under his arm and two dogs trailed him. He told her he was walking the boundaries and she had no reason to challenge him on that.
He rarely arrived home in time for lunch. He would call for a sandwich when he stomped into the house in the late afternoon. He ate in his office.
A week after they arrived, a small man with round spectacles and a thin mustache arrived carrying a heavy briefcase.
Will curse when he saw the man standing in the front hall. “Stephenson,” he said. “Damn the man, he followed me here.”
“Who is it, Will?” Bridget asked, for she had not heard the name before.
“Never mind.” He gave her a smile that showed some strain. “I’ll get rid of him before I head out.” The butler, Bakersfield, was in the dining room, so Will did not kiss her goodbye.
Only slightly perturbed, Bridget settled in the morning room to interview three woman for the position of head housekeeper. Bakersfield had insisted they needed such a person to run a house this large.
She hired a Mrs. MacDonald, a widow with ruddy cheeks, a thick brogue and small bird-like eyes. Her cheery disposition won Bridget over more than her credentials, which were impressive.
“Och, dearie, the house needs a housekeeper, to be sure,” Mrs. MacDonald assured her. “A local lady is best, for she knows all the suppliers and their ways.”
Mrs. MacDonald moved into the downstairs quarters two days later. Immediately, Mrs. MacDonald set up a daily interview with Bridget that covered the needs of the household, including more staff, more linens, more food, more crockery…more of everything.
“The house has been neglected for years,” Mrs. MacDonald explained with a sigh. “Lord Farleigh likes the place well enough, only he’s never lived here year in and year out. Things have lapsed and been allowed to slide.”
Bridget’s days abruptly evolved in an endless march of challenges and problems. She had not understood before now the miracle that a smooth-running household was. It felt as though she could get nothing right. Every day Bakersfield or Mrs. MacDonald came to her with a new problem—frozen pipes, or slovenly maids, or missing china. Critically low levels in the coal cellar. It was always something new and difficult, added on top of the endless round of responsibilities that came with being the lady of the house.
Word passed through Kirkaldy village and to Inverness itself that a new lord was resident in the manor and the invitations and requests for audiences poured into the house.
When Bridget tried to arrange suitable times for Will to sit d
own with local authorities, or commit to an evening dinner, or formal luncheon, he grew restless. He could not leave the room because the only time Bridget could ask him about the appointments was at dinner and as he liked to eat, he was forced to stay where he was. He would rub at the back of his neck and shift on his chair. His long silences in response to simple questions were frustrating.
“The local magistrate is someone you should cultivate,” Bridget pointed out one evening. “A simple dinner, as simple as this one, would be a good start. Could you withstand a third diner at the table, Will?”
He had chewed his mutton silently, his eyes on his plate, for long minutes, before saying gruffly, “I will think about it.”
The evenings, which Bridget had thought would be a small haven of peace and pleasantness in her harried days, were nothing of the sort. On their first full day at Kirkaldy, after dinner was done Will rose from the table and left before Bridget had finished eating.
Puzzled, Bridget pushed her plate aside and searched for him. She found Will in the library, his feet up on the big desk and a brandy glass in his hand.
She had withdrawn that first night and spent it alone by the fire in the drawing room before heading upstairs. Perhaps, when Will came to bed, things would sort themselves out.
Only, when he did arrive in the bedroom, he did not turn on the lamp. He undressed in the dark and slid into the bed as he had done at Marblethorpe and in complete silence, pressed himself upon her.
Bridget was helpless against the assault of his mouth and hands and body. He had only to slide his hand over her hip for her core to quiver with eagerness and her limbs to melt. The way he made her feel was a delight she could not refuse, no matter how her day had gone, or how deep her building puzzlement over Will grew.
In the antique bed, with the snow-glow coming through the windows their only light, was the only time the two of them seemed to be able to communicate. Will could orchestrate her body and her responses in a way that sometimes seemed as if he was reading her mind.
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