A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  Gavin stepped out onto the street, drawing deeply of the city’s night air.

  The doorman asked if he wished to have a ride signaled for him. He shook his head. He needed the walk. Menheim was less than a mile from the Clarendon.

  As he made his way, he could almost hear Rovington laugh at him. If Rov had been in his place, he would have won his bet right or not.

  Rovington’s name reminded him that he still had details to settle about the duel.

  So he was happily surprised when he returned home to find his youngest brother Ben sitting on the steps in the front hall, a glass of Gavin’s whisky in his hand.

  Gavin handed his coat and his hat to the night footman. “Are you a mind reader that you knew I needed to see you?” he asked Ben.

  “You missed the Pensions vote today, brother,” Ben replied.

  The vote. How could Gavin have forgotten the vote? And yet, once he saw how upset Sarah had been when she’d discovered her plays ruined, he had not been able to leave her. He’d had to stay to be certain she was all right when she woke.

  Of course, Talbert had urged him to leave, but Gavin had sent him back to Menheim, promising he would make it to Westminster in time for the vote. In truth, those votes always took hours. There were delays or negotiations. He had meant to be there for it . . . and then he’d started reading Sarah’s play and had lost track of time.

  “It slipped my mind.” He moved toward the front reception room where there was always a good supply of his whisky.

  “Well, that is a wonder of wonders,” Ben said, following him. “My brother is human. Liverpool will expect an answer, of course, one better than, ‘I forgot.’”

  “You will think of one. And how is Elin?” Ben’s wife was expecting their first child.

  “Sleepy,” Ben answered. “She has become a true snug in bed. I should also warn you that Mother is greatly offended with you. She had arranged an introduction this evening with you and a suitable young woman?”

  Gavin groaned his remorse. Before leaving the room at the Clarendon, Talbert had also reminded him not to forget the engagement for the evening.

  “I’ll apologize in the morning and do what I must for the young lady.” What a wrinkle. Gavin knew his mother would, rightly, have more than a few tart words for him. He poured whisky into a glass.

  “And,” Ben continued cheerfully, but with that hint of mischief that warned Gavin he’d better listen well, “you have set tongues wagging all over London. I heard your name in the halls of Whitehall today and on the street on my way home. I am also certain you have been the topic of conversation at every dinner party this evening and every soiree.”

  “Because I missed the vote?”

  “No, because you have taken a mistress.”

  Gavin put down his drink.

  “From what I hear,” Ben continued, “she isn’t just any woman. She is the one every man in London wants—including Rovington. Is it true he issued a challenge?”

  “Aye. May I count on you to be my second?”

  “Proudly.”

  “Be prepared. Rov is out for blood. His pride is on the line. He’d wagered a fortune that he would bed her, a fortune he can’t pay if he loses.”

  “That is what I’ve heard. Bad business. He was very vocal about you before the vote today. He claims you betrayed him.”

  “I put him in his place.”

  “Meanwhile, the men who had bet against him had their hands out. He is in a devil of a fix. He also made a point of letting me know that the prime minister will be waiting a good long while for his Money Bill to come out of the Commons.”

  “The bastard. It is one thing to have an argument with me to but to keep that money from our generals is a different matter.”

  “Exactly. Liverpool is not happy.”

  “I can’t imagine so.”

  “He asked me to give you a message.”

  “And that is?” Gavin asked, expecting it to be a rebuke for Rov’s threats.

  “He told me to tell you to ‘put a hole in the man.’”

  “I will,” Gavin answered grimly. “I will.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sarah surprised herself by going back to bed and sleeping long and hard in spite of the earlier nap.

  This time, her sleep was filled with dreams. She dreamed of her mother and summer days when Sarah had been sent into the garden to play.

  “Don’t come into the house until I call for you,” her mother said in her dreams, words Sarah had come to understand meant she was to disappear, to pretend not to exist. Her mother’s gentlemen were far more important to her than a daughter.

  “Give us a few moments, my little love.”

  “Leave us be while you play with your doll, precious.”

  “Do not interrupt Mother when she is with her friend.”

  “Do not knock on my door—”

  The sound of someone knocking on the door woke Sarah. They had apparently been doing so for some time because a male voice—Mr. Talbert’s—said impatiently, “Mrs. Pettijohn? Mrs. Pettijohn.”

  Sarah stretched, blinking and trying to regain her bearings. The sunlight in the sitting room told her it was early morning. She was still naked and wrapped up in the coverlet.

  The knock at the door was turning into pounding. “Mrs. Pettijohn, we have many tasks today and I have a dressmaker with me.”

  Dressmaker? Sarah unwrapped herself from the bedclothes and stood. Her ruined forest-green dress was where she’d placed it over a chair. Yes, a dressmaker was in great demand.

  “One moment,” she managed to squawk out, her voice hoarse. She pulled on the dress then quickly polished her teeth, splashed cold water from the basin on her face, and gave her hair a brush. The hip tub and bath things were still in the corner. She skirted around them and went out into the sitting room.

  Once he’d heard her voice, Talbert had stopped his incessant knocking. However, that didn’t stop him from letting his impatience be known with a snort of derision when she opened the door.

  Sarah could have slammed it in his face except for the crowd of women behind him. They carried bolts of fabric, beautiful materials in colored muslins and radiant silks.

  Talbert indicated with a snap of his fingers for the women to follow him into the room. The woman who entered first was obviously the leader of the dressmakers. Her burgundy gown was an understatement in refined grace. She wore a charming straw hat trimmed in silk ribbon and one jaunty ostrich feather. Her dark hair was streaked with the silver of age and yet the amusement in her eye over Talbert’s high-handedness gave her youth.

  With a professional’s glance, she seemed capable of measuring Sarah’s person. She noted the bare feet, the wrinkled dress, the unruly hair. It took all of Sarah’s considerable will to not run to hide in the bedroom.

  “This is Mrs. Hillsman,” Talbert threw out as if the name should mean nothing to Sarah—but it did.

  “Mrs. Hillsman?” Sarah had to stop from sinking to her knees in admiration. In a city overrun with fashionable dressmakers and seamstresses, Mrs. Hillsman was the finest of them all. Only the very crème of London Society were her clients. Her dresses were in such demand that the papers made mention when a gentlewoman wore one to an event.

  And the idea that Sarah was standing there looking like a wild-haired harridan in front of the esteemed Mrs. Hillsman horrified her. Dear Lord, she still had sleep in her eyes.

  Fortunately, Talbert was on hand to keep Sarah firmly in reality. He opened the ledger he carried, tapped something on the page with his finger and then snapped the book shut.

  With a haughty flare of his nostrils, he said to the dressmaker, “You will provide Mrs. Pettijohn with a full wardrobe. Please keep in mind her station in life. She is dressing for His Grace and not her own preferences.” He gave Sarah a tight smile as he said the last. He then added, “You do understand what is expected, Mrs. Hillsman? I’m certain you have dealt with these sorts of circumstances before.”

&
nbsp; “I do indeed, Mr. Talbert.” She spoke with the authority of a woman who understood her business and her place in the world. She also considered Talbert a minion.

  Sarah was jealous of her quiet confidence.

  “Mrs. Pettijohn,” Talbert barked as if Sarah needed scolding, “I will return to take you to look at—” he opened his book and reread it again to confirm “—theaters and possible residences at half past one. We have a full afternoon before us. Do not keep me waiting in the hall the way you did this morning.”

  With that, he closed his ledger, performed a most excellent about-face, and marched out of the room, a soldier for the Duke of Baynton. Lest anyone believe he was enjoying his new duties of shepherding Sarah, he slammed the door behind him.

  And Sarah wanted to go after him and rail at him for such dismissive treatment. She confronted the esteemed dressmaker and her staff who had witnessed his patronizing behavior. They were certainly forming the worst sort of impression of her. “How dare he behave as if I’m a pest? This is not my idea. I’ve been locked in here by the Duke of Baynton. He left me without a key and no way to fend for myself.”

  “No key?” Mrs. Hillsman questioned. “Like this one?” She walked to the desk and picked up a key that had been beside Sarah’s play. “In fact, the door was not locked. Mr. Talbert assumed it was, but I did not hear a key turn in the lock when you opened it.”

  A hot flush made Sarah shift uncomfortably. Baynton had left the key for her. “I did not realize.”

  “And if you are a prisoner, this is a lovely prison,” Mrs. Hillsman observed, taking off her gloves and giving the room the same scrutiny she had used on Sarah’s person. Seeing her assistants still held their wares, she said, “Put those down and have all these taken away.” She indicated the serving dishes from last night’s meal on the table. “This stack of papers as well.” She referred to the Widow.

  Sarah swooped in and picked up the play. “I shall see to this.” She carried it in to the bedroom.

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Hillsman was giving orders to her assistant carrying the dinner tray into the hall. “Have a tray sent up of breakfast dishes. You know what I like. And a pot of good strong black tea. A hot one, mind you. Test it yourself to see that it is right.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the assistant said.

  Sarah stood in the bedroom door, taking in the busyness of the room. While the assistant left with the empty dishes, two others were moving the furniture toward the wall, clearing an open space. Another placed a huge leather portfolio on the table and then began setting out scissors, pins, and chalk from a basket. Mrs. Hillsman took off her smart bonnet and set it carefully on the table next to her gloves.

  “Thank you for ordering breakfast,” Sarah said. “I would not have known what to do, not here.”

  Mrs. Hillsman opened the portfolio. It was filled with dress drawings. She began flipping through the pages. “There is a floor steward at the top of the steps. You need only stick your head out the door and tell him what you need. He knows who is paying your account. He will do anything to please you, as will I.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said, mortified that she was not more worldly. If Mrs. Hillsman had not told her about the steward, she might have starved in the room. She crossed to look over the dressmaker’s shoulder. The gowns on each page were of the very height of fashion.

  Mrs. Hillsman set aside one particularly lovely day dress and assessed Sarah a moment before studying the fabrics her assistants had spread out on the furniture. Offhandedly, she said, “I usually don’t make these calls myself.”

  “What kind of calls do you refer to?” Sarah asked.

  “The mistress ones.” A well-manicured hand on the drawing, Mrs. Hillsman faced her. “I came because I had to meet the woman who has caught the interest of the Duke of Baynton. Many have angled for him but you are his first mistress to my knowledge.”

  Sarah could confirm her conjecture, but chose to be silent. She had enough respect for Baynton to not reveal his secrets.

  At her silence, Mrs. Hillsman nodded her approval. “There are many who will ask me about you. They will ply me for information.”

  “And what shall you tell them?”

  “That it is not my place to blabber,” Mrs. Hillsman answered.

  “Yet, you are personally curious as to why he chose me?”

  “A woman always is,” the dressmaker said. “It is our nature. Later today, when my special clientele come calling in my shop, I shall artfully drop hints that I have met you. My custom will increase threefold this week from those looking for an excuse to hear me describe the woman who inspired a duel between two important nobles.”

  The duel. How could Sarah have forgotten? “I had no hand in its making. In fact, if it is in my power to dissuade the duke and Lord Rovington to forget the challenge, I will do so.”

  “Even better,” Mrs. Hillsman said, her voice taking on a bright tone. “If you succeed then I shall have met the woman who caused two honorable men to dishonor themselves.”

  “There is no honor in dueling.”

  “How little you know of men, Mrs. Pettijohn, and yet you have captured Baynton. There are times I wonder if God knows what He is doing?”

  Before Sarah could manage a suitable retort, a sound at the door warned them that the assistant had returned with two hotel stewards carrying breakfast trays. “Good, here is something to start off our morning. Mrs. Pettijohn, tea? You will need all your strength for what we have planned for you.”

  And she was right.

  As an actress, Sarah was accustomed to good dressmaking and the measurements needed. She’d also worked with the wardrobe mistresses enough to understand garment construction and to be a judge of quality materials.

  The fabrics Mrs. Hillsman had brought were the best and very suitable for Sarah’s coloring. Apparently, the duke himself had sent instructions to Mrs. Hillsman. He’d described Sarah’s hair as “the red of the richest garnets.” Therefore, Mrs. Hillsman had chosen the greens and blues that Sarah herself favored, as well as ivory muslins. White never suited her coloring.

  There were also laces and ribbons to choose and within the first hour, Mrs. Hillsman sent her assistant with an order for the shoemaker and milliner to join them and to bring whatever they had available because it was needed today. Another assistant was sent off to purchase stockings, gloves, and small clothes. Another was dispatched to Mrs. Hillsman’s shop for a dress that was almost finished for another client that the dressmaker believed would be better suited for Sarah.

  “You truly have nothing,” Mrs. Hillsman happily complained. “We shall be working day and night to finish your wardrobe so that you have something to wear.” Sarah did not want to think how much all of this was costing Baynton. At the same time, it was a pleasure to choose without worry about cost.

  By noon, Sarah felt as if she had been dragged behind a cart. However, the woman who stared at her reflection in the glass was a far cry from the one who had woken naked that morning.

  The dress that had been waylaid for Sarah’s use was a fine muslin dyed bishop’s blue and covered with tiny lavender flowers. It sported cap sleeves and a low neckline. One of the assistants had styled Sarah’s hair, pinning it high on her head and letting a few curls fall free around her face.

  “He won’t be able to stop looking at your chest,” Mrs. Hillsman predicted, primping the lace edging around Sarah’s bodice a bit, “although few men need such a lovely display to stare.” She frowned and murmured, “The dress does cry for a necklace, but I shall leave that to you to earn, my dear. When the duke is ready to buy you jewelry, contact me. I know an excellent jeweler who will pay us both a commission.”

  “A commission?” Sarah repeated, surprised.

  “Of course.” Mrs. Hillsman shook her head. “You really are very green at this, and you’d best wise up. I like you, Sarah. Now that we know each other a touch better, I can confess I had assumed you would be much younger and all dewy fresh. One of those girls that
hasn’t a wrinkle on her skin.”

  “There was a time I didn’t,” Sarah said. “However, if the duke wishes someone flawless, he has chosen the wrong woman.”

  Mrs. Hillsman laughed. “Perhaps he is looking for something else. Perhaps he is that rare man who values character.”

  “I don’t know if that is a compliment or not,” Sarah answered.

  “It is, Mrs. Pettijohn. Never doubt for a moment, it is.” The dressmaker held out her hand, an offer of friendship.

  Sarah took it. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “All you must do is please him—and in that dress, half your work is done. Any other time you need advice, you may call on me. You have a good head on your shoulders. You shall do well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have some sense. There aren’t many ways for women like us to make our own way in the world. Most of the young things waste opportunity.”

  “You have had a protector?”

  “How do you think I gained my shop?” Mrs. Hillsman answered.

  “My mother was not so fortunate. Or wise.” Sarah found it suddenly hard to look at her reflection. She turned away. “She died poor and alone. All of her lovers abandoned her. I swore I’d never be like her.”

  “You aren’t,” Mrs. Hillsman said sagely. “You are a survivor, as am I. Those others, they lose sight of what is important. Eventually, they lose faith.”

  “And what is important?” Sarah wondered. Right now, her once ordered world seemed a jumbled mess.

  Mrs. Hillsman didn’t even take a moment’s reflection. “Security. It is all any of us need.”

  But not me, Sarah wanted to say. I have big dreams. And yet she held her tongue. After all, perhaps the older woman was right and Sarah had been chasing the wrong thing such as her need to see her talent validated.

  An assistant came to the door with a shawl in colors that reminded Sarah of a peacock’s tail. “Yes, Eloise, that is what I wanted.” Mrs. Hillsman motioned the girl forward, took the shawl and draped it over Sarah’s shoulders. “With the straw hat we purchased, you are ready for Mr. Talbert. Don’t let him bully you. He is afraid you will have more power than he has, and you will.”