Royal Regard

by Mariana Gabrielle

  Charlotte ignored the question of the ominous clouds and sharp breeze, and Bella’s request for a quieter environment in which to visit, turning away from the window without closing it an inch. Charlotte’s claret-colored merino-wool day dress was far warmer than Bella’s gown of Indian cotton, chosen for a quiet—or not-so-quiet—day at home before a fire. She pulled the shawl closer.

  Bella had hoped for contemplation, not conversation, but of course, she had forgotten Charlotte’s incessant need to analyze every word and every deed of every lady and every gentleman at every party. Or rather, she had hoped in vain Charlotte might have outgrown it.

  “What is all that awful banging?” Charlotte asked.

  The servants’ entrance from the mews behind the house, where merchants’ deliveries were now nearly nonstop, sounded like Cheapside at Yuletide, and there was no room in the house left undisturbed. The workmen clattering and shouting were giving Bella headaches.

  “A great many things that require hammers and nails and bashing holes in the walls. Heated water, gravity showers, Argand lamps, voice pipes. Carpentry and plasterwork. It should only be this intolerable another few days, I’m told. Meanwhile, I am choosing furniture and cushions.” She indicated the boxes of samples on her writing desk.

  For the moment, her private sitting room walls were yet covered in dank, water-stained, lavender-flowered wallpaper above the chair rail, tattered lemon-yellow silk below, all grimy with twenty years of uneven sun-bleaching and dust. Although all of the colors complemented her skin tone, to Bella’s taste, it looked like a dyed Easter egg left to decay on a shelf for a decade; an elderly spinster dressed in desiccated debutante finery.

  Bella picked up an embroidery hoop and laid it on her lap while she sorted silks. “If you don’t mind, I would much rather discuss the appointments for my home than the notoriety attached to my name.”

  Charlotte maintained, “We have weeks to decorate your house, but only one morning-after-your-first-party-in-London.”

  Bella pursed her lips. She should have known better.

  Charlotte flounced over to sit next to her cousin on the de Cuvilliés sofa, upholstered in a once-cream-colored tapestry, woven with fist-sized purple flowers of a genus and species Bella had never seen. Bella winced and Charlotte started at the sound of another long tear in the fabric.

  The upholstery of all the furniture had dry-rotted under the dustsheets that had covered it for fifteen years—themselves replaced twice—but no servant was so impertinent as to sit in the baroness’ chairs, so the shredding only became apparent once she had. Now everything was dripping horsehair and wadding. The wood, of course, had all been cleaned and polished with beeswax before Bella and Myron returned.

  With less reaction to the problematic furniture than Bella had expected, Charlotte pulled at the rumpled lace on Bella’s coral morning dress. “This is a lovely color, but your abigail is hopeless with an iron. You must let me find you someone new.”

  “I have no lady’s maid. I am the one hopeless with an iron,” Bella frowned.

  Charlotte sniffed, “Pressing your own clothes. It’s like you were raised by a pack of wild dogs.”

  “I was raised by your mother.”

  Charlotte patted her knee. “Touché.”

  “Self-reliance is a virtue in places no competent servant will go, and wrinkles are not such a tragedy in other parts of the world. I can even arrange my own hair.” Bella hoped it was early enough in the day that it wasn’t yet falling from its pins. With her tiny sewing scissors, she clipped a ragged end of grey-brown silk at an angle, threading it carefully through the needle, and began to fill in the outline of a robin redbreast.

  Charlotte frowned at Bella’s coiffure. “Whoever told you that was playing you false. I can easily find someone proficient. An advertisement will be placed this afternoon.”

  “You are no longer responsible for my deportment. And you might look to your own house. You are running to fat these days.”

  Charlotte’s nostrils flared and her nose wrinkled as she made an unidentifiable sound in the back of her throat. It had been years since Bella had needed to determine her cousin’s moods by ear, but this was suspiciously like the noise Charlotte made when she might begin to cry, so Bella conceded, showing Charlotte it was a tease with a small smile.

  Emotions once more in check, Charlotte responded with a slight chill. “As long as you won’t have a care for your appearance, I will, and my figure is my husband’s concern, not yours. I’ve given him two children, and he likes me the way I am.” She punctuated her comment with a hard nod. “You, on the other hand, will need a new husband in no time at all. Your suitors may as well be handsome and rich, considering your new title and all you’ll inherit. Just as easy to wed a handsome man as a hideous one, all fortunes being equal.”

  “Charlotte! Mind your tongue!”

  “Why? Myron looks like his legs will go out from under him any second.”

  “Please do not make me a dowager before my time, nor wish my husband dead. And there is no way to know whether the king will confer a title. He is changeable, and Myron and I know it better than anyone. If we had a guinea for every time he sent us someplace we didn’t intend—”

  “Don’t you, though?” Charlotte asked, shrewdly. She leaned in closer, lowering her voice, looking around to ensure no servants were in the room. “Before the Brewster’s ball, you will be the Countess of Huntleigh. Myron will receive the Writ of Summons tomorrow, and the king intends to hand it to him personally.”

  Bella touched the back of her hand to her lips. “As soon as that?” When she realized she was staring wide-eyed, she schooled her expression to something more appropriate than the look of a little girl given a new doll.

  “Alexander has it from Lord Pinnester, who was there when His Majesty gave the order.”

  “I must admit,” Bella relaxed her mouth and her shaky hands, picking out a short row of bad stitches. “I am so proud of Myron. He has given his life to the Crown, almost literally on more occasions than I care to consider. He deserves to be recognized for it.”

  “Myron’s valet must be informed right away.” Charlotte removed a tangled skein of violet thread from Bella’s sewing basket and began to work out the knots. Bella took the silk from her hand, replacing it with hopelessly snarled dark green that matched the outlined leaves on the robin’s branch.

  Bella wiped her eyes clean of both anxiety and satisfaction, leaving her face untouchable. “He has no valet, Charlotte. We travelled very simply in three rooms on the frigate. I was his valet; he was my lady’s maid.”

  “No valet?” Charlotte’s voice grew shriller with every lapse. “And an audience with the king tomorrow? Heavens. I’ll send Alexander’s man back here as soon as I arrive home, and place two advertisements.” She looked around again and dropped her voice. “And never again refer to the Earl of Huntleigh as a lady’s maid.”

  Bella dropped her sewing into her lap. “We need no—”

  “You have no idea what you need. My maid will keep you from appearing before the king in men’s trousers and clogs with your hair looking like…” Charlotte’s eyebrows turned in intent on Bella’s appearance, “like that.”

  “Charlotte, you cannot—”

  “I can. I will. I will outrank you even once you are a countess, so simply say, ‘Yes, my lady. Thank you, my lady,’ and consider it done.”

  “I will hang myself from London Bridge before I call you ‘my lady,’” Bella said, as she pulled the thread through the linen.

  Rather than jabbing Bella with a witty remark, Charlotte used a far more effective weapon, forging ahead with her version of the prior night’s events. Bella poked her finger with the needle when Charlotte said, “Lord Malbourne would have cut off a limb to dance with you, and if not for your eternal scowling and hiding yourself every time I walked away, you would have had dozens of partners.”

  Bella took up a spare scrap of cloth to stanch the minor bleeding. “Will yo
u refer to him properly, as though you have a semblance of good breeding?”

  “He has been Lord Malbourne for thirty years. No one calls him ‘Your Grace’ outside his own servants.”

  Charlotte scowled at the errant lace that wouldn’t lie flat on Bella’s gown and tried to tack up a wayward strand of her hair, until Bella yanked herself away, setting the shawl askew, cold air from the window raising gooseflesh on her arms. If only to keep Charlotte from rummaging through her wardrobe and giving things away to the maid, Bella let herself be drawn into the conversation.

  Pulling her shawl tight, she admitted, “I am quite relieved he was the only man to offer, with Myron so ill-tempered.”

  Bella decided if she were forced to engage in this ridiculous exchange, she would at least be comfortable doing so. She crossed to the window to close it, then drew the heavy velvet curtains and added a log to the fire, breathing in the scent she remembered from her childhood. Coal required coin her father never had, but wood from her uncle’s forest cost only her brothers’ labor and her uncle’s displeasure. She held her hands out to warm her icy fingers, rubbing her upper arms on the way back to her seat.

  Once settled, she added, “Never in our lives has he refused a partner on my behalf, especially not that rudely. Myron is never rude, certainly not to a duke.”

  “Why is it he so dislikes Lord Malbourne? Just because he’s French?”

  While she continued trying to warm herself, rubbing her hands against her dress, Charlotte took the opportunity to stab a hairpin into Bella’s scalp, ignoring the yelp of pain. The flurry of action tore another rip in the seating.

  Bella spoke only after slapping Charlotte’s hand away and rearranging the pin.

  “I have no more information than you. As he told us all last night, my husband believes the duke did not act the gentleman where his late wife was concerned.”

  “Yes, but what did he do?”

  Bella took the green thread from Charlotte’s lap, measuring out a strand as long as her forearm, as much as she could without untangling more, then picked up her needlework once again.

  “I know you find it incomprehensible I don’t discuss the latest on-dit with Myron, but he has asked me to defer to his judgment, and I shall. We have many other concerns to occupy our time. For instance, it will be better for everyone if I can convince him to rusticate to the new manor house His Majesty has provided near Bath, so Myron can take the waters, but it has been like the trials of Sisyphus thus far. I have to assume we will be staying here for the nonce, and even our dishes are rented. The housekeeper seems to think it’s my fault.”

  Charlotte jabbed, “Is it not?”

  Bella glared at her, “For that, you will not be going with me to Piccadilly while I make us presentable. You might have noticed what furniture we have is hopelessly moth-eaten.” She demonstrated by pulling her fingertip through another few inches of intact upholstery, “which is the housekeeper’s fault, while we are assigning blame. I had thought to start this afternoon, searching through the things we’ve sent home all these years, but shopping is a certainty.”

  “You cannot go out this afternoon.”

  Bella finally achieved the insouciant expression she’d attempted unsuccessfully the entire night at Almack’s.

  “Why ever not?”

  Charlotte stared, unrepentant. “You told at least a dozen ladies you would be receiving today.”

  Bella looked across her embroidery hoop and down her nose at Charlotte. “Did I? How unfortunate.”

  She reached over to the bell pull, bringing the housekeeper into the room. “Mrs. Jemison, can you please arrange the carriage and one of the footmen for me at half past twelve? My husband will insist I not drive in Town, so it had better be Benjamin—”

  Charlotte yelped, “Drive?! Why in Heaven’s name would you drive? Have you somehow overcome your fear of horses?”

  “I have overcome my fear of many things, Charlotte.” Bella turned to Mrs. Jemison and continued, “It will be helpful if the young man knows the shopping districts, as I am no longer familiar.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “If you make a list, I will ensure you have adequate china, linens, and silver by the time you serve supper this evening, and I will send an upholsterer to inventory the furniture.” The housekeeper almost permitted herself a small smile. “And since Lady Firthley clearly refuses leave, you may as well bring tea. No cakes, though, as she is getting to be as fat as a sow in milk.”

  Mrs. Jemison gaped for only a moment, quickly blanking her face.

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “You mustn’t tease Mrs. Jemison, Bella. She is not yet familiar with your waspish disposition, and I’m sure she is the only person in London, barring myself, who can keep you from social ruin. Mrs. Jemison, please bring us tea and cakes. Cakes for ten, in fact.” Charlotte nodded decisively as the housekeeper stared helplessly at Bella.

  “Only enough cakes for nine, please, as I won’t be having any, and Lady Firthley must have already eaten. You may go now, before she decides to invite herself to nuncheon and leaves you nothing in the larder but lettuce.”

  Once the housekeeper had left, shaking her head, Charlotte quickly continued the irritating line of conversation, while Bella ran the end of the thread under the stitches on the back of the cloth, tying a knot to hold it firm. Once finished, she clipped the thread and ran her fingers over the design, ensuring her stitches were even.

  Charlotte smoothed her skirt and unconsciously tapped her beaded violet silk slipper as if she were still in last night’s ballroom.

  “The Duke of Wellbridge would have danced with you with the slightest encouragement. He was staring all night.”

  “And yet, like every other gentleman, he never asked,” Bella noted, as she threaded pink silk through the needle. A sudden crash of the burning log sent sparks flying about the hearth. Bella found the sudden heat set her shivering, and Charlotte moved quickly to make sure no errant flames caught the muddy-gold carpet. Finding none, she added a small log and returned to her seat.

  “Can you blame him after the slur on Lord Malbourne? Everyone heard it.” Charlotte observed. “Besides, his sister had him dancing with debutantes all evening.”

  As she threaded the needle with a dark grey, Bella asked, “Which one was Wellbridge?”

  “The terribly handsome man whose attendance on the dance floor was enforced by the Viscountess Nockham all night.”

  “I don’t know Lady Nockham. I don’t know anyone, you might recall.”

  “You remember Lady Allison. She tried to run off in her brother’s clothes to stow away on his ship.”

  Bella laughed aloud, “I do remember that. I envied her until they dragged her home and locked her up in the country. I will make a point to encourage an acquaintance.”

  “Indeed.” Charlotte was suddenly as crafty as a politician arranging a bribe, painting a circle on the floor with the toe of her shoe. “If only because Wellbridge is the brother.”

  Bella turned away to continue needling Charlotte as pointedly as her embroidery. “And which gentleman was Wellbridge exactly?”

  “For Heaven’s sake, you needn’t pretend to be so silly. He was the one you caught staring over the shoulder of a girl-in-white every time you looked.” Charlotte poked Bella in the arm. “Not that you were looking.”

  Bella conceded, “With the blond hair?”

  “Yes, in the green waistcoat to match his eyes.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t make a study of his eyes,” Bella said, tying off a final French knot and trimming the thread.

  “A shame. He does have remarkable eyes. He’s still as handsome as sin, even at nearly fifty, and finally the duke. Second son until his brother died a few years ago, but the Northopes have always been flush in the pocket. Debutantes have been throwing their handkerchiefs at him for decades.”

  Bella tugged loose another strand of pink thread the length of her arm, then pulled the red silk from the basket and set
it carefully on her knee.

  “If he’s escaped the matrimonial noose this long, why do they still bother?”

  “Well, just look at him! Knee breeches make every man look silly, but you should see him in buckskins… And the way his shoulders fill out his coat… When his hair comes loose and falls across his forehead, I could lose my breath entirely.” Charlotte went a bit dreamy-eyed, “He rides every morning, and the way he sits a horse is just—”

  Bella poked the back of her cousin’s hand with the sewing needle.

  “Ouch!” Charlotte exclaimed, snatching up the same scrap of cloth Bella had used to stop the bleeding. “Why did you do that?!”

  “To remind you of your husband.”

  Charlotte glowered, but with no real malice. “Fine, Miss Marplot, spoil my fun. Aside from his more obvious attributes, he might have the largest fortune in England. At least that is what Alexander says.”

  “What is wrong with this paragon? Why has he not been leg-shackled long since?”

  Charlotte whispered like a spy, from the corner of her mouth, her voice lowered as though this particular gossip might earn her a rebuke from her mother. “He’s sworn for years he will never marry. Says he has no need, since he can borrow other men’s wives.”

  “Borrow?” Bella’s eyebrow seemed to pull her nose up so she could more easily look down it.

  Charlotte kept her voice low, looking around for misplaced servants. “He only takes up with married women. Alexander watches him like a hawk, as though a man like Wellbridge would ever want me.” She rolled her eyes. “He is older than the Alps, of course. I might not mention him at all, but Lady Allison has sworn to have him married by special license inside the month, before he is too ancient to produce an heir. You’ll have to put your oar in right away if you want to snare him.”

  “It doesn’t bear discussing, if only because the idea of ‘snaring’ anyone is ghastly. I already have a husband and no intention of becoming some man’s mistress. Even if I had, no man so handsome as that will look twice at me. He was either struck dumb by my spectacular ugliness or wondered why a kaffir was invited to Almack’s.”