For generations—hundreds of years—the beautiful, handmade lace and stockings of Nottinghamshire had dominated the English market. But with the advent of machinery, Anne’s father had watched his beloved parishioners endure a drastic decrease in income and prestige. Most had been forced to submit to the regimented and cruel treatment of factory owners just to feed their families.
Prudence was speaking again. “One must know one’s place in the world. If you are a stockinger making seven shillings a week, you had better stay a stockinger, no matter how many machines the hosiers bring in. That is your place. Anne, your father may have preached that all people are the same in God’s eyes, but I am sorry to tell you he was wrong. There are royalty, nobility, merchants, and laborers. You cannot go from one to the other. I am a tradesman’s daughter, and both of my sisters are married to tradesmen. Our wealth and happy connections with Society’s elite cannot erase our low position among them. You are a housemaid, and your job is to serve the duke’s family. It has been God’s hand that put the two of us together again, for if I leave Slocombe, you will not be permitted to go with me.”
“You are right,” Anne said, though she was unsure how sad this turn of events might be.
“My point is that you are a maid, and you cannot go independently selling lace to Sir Alexander or stealing it from the marquess. You could be put in prison like your father . . . or worse.”
Anne rubbed her eyes and focused on the long windows. Where the curtains had been left open, moisture on the glass panes had traced fantastic curls that made her think of a dragon’s misty breath. She envisioned the lace she could design of that undulating, magical pattern of swirls and shadows. Of course, no one would purchase a piece of lace so imaginative. The aristocracy wanted their standard roses and bows, perhaps a fern or two, and if they were unusually daring, a cherub or an urn.
“Here is my advice,” Prudence said, offering her seventh new stratagem that night. Anne had counted them. “You should forget you ever made that lace panel. It was a foolhardy notion in the first place, thinking you could sell it to Sir Alexander. You are too much the dreamer, Anne. You have no practical sense.”
Anne wondered, as she often did, how lace would look dyed in all the colors of the rainbow. At the moment, blonde lace was becoming all the fashion, lavishly trimming dresses, caps, pelisses, and aprons. Only a woman with especially dry hands could make blonde lace. In the summer it must be worked in the out-of-doors, and in winter it could be worked only in special rooms built over cow houses, where the animals’ breath warmed the air. The smell in those rooms, as Anne well knew, was pungent, but the soot from any form of flame heat would damage the lace’s fine threads.
“This is what you should do, Anne,” Prudence said. It was her eighth attempt at dispensing advice. “You should start another piece of lace, this one more marketable, strewn with roses and lilies and such. In one or two years’ time, if you save your wages from your work for the duke’s family and add to it what you earn from your next lace, you should be able to go back to Nottingham and eventually pay an attorney to defend your father.”
One or two years. Anne thought of her father living night and day in the darkness of his small prison cell. How different from the snug parsonage with its quaint library, writing desk, and warm rugs. He had suffered from ill health for many years, and Anne feared he could not live much longer in the confines of a prison.
It was not his physical strength that would suffer so much as his spirit. Mr. Webster considered his books sustenance, his pen and inkstand friends, and his pulpit the very breath of life. His communion with God through prayer and Bible reading were foremost—followed by his determination to serve mankind. He viewed the Luddites and their war against machinery as a cause as noble as the great Crusades, and he was willing to give his life on their behalf. Without Anne to secure his release, he surely would.
She had made it her mission to free the man who had given her breath, taught her to love Christ, and provided the educa- tion she valued above all else. Yes, Anne was a Christian, and she did all in her power to honor God. But she had been given a mind and will and strength of her own. She had talent and ambition, and she intended to use it all on her father’s behalf. No man would stand in her way. The devil might try to waylay her, but he would not succeed.
“Here is what you should do,” Prudence whispered. Suggestion number nine. “You should go down to Tiverton with me for church tomorrow and then take the afternoon off to visit the new mill that Mr. Heathcoat has built. Though I dislike the prospect of losing you, perhaps you might ask for an interview with Mr. Heathcoat himself and show him what you can do with lace. If he has any sense at all, he must put you to work as a designer of embroidery patterns for the machine lace he is manufacturing.”
Anne turned her head and frowned at Miss Watson’s moonlit profile. “Machine lace?”
“Oh, it cannot be so bad, Anne. Without the embroidery stitched upon it by hand, it is nothing more than boring and tedious net. You must not feel so threatened.” In contrast to Anne’s straight nose, Miss Watson’s tilted upward at the tip, giving her a pert look—though lately Prudence had been anything but pert.
“You must be reasonable, Anne,” she continued. “You can remain on the staff here at Slocombe, or you can think of something else rational to do. It is not as though there are many choices.”
Anne stroked her fingertips across the hem of the sheet. “I could always be a marchioness.”
“There you go again. You will not be logical.”
Anne tugged the sheet up to her neck. She knew she needed to sleep, but every time she shut her eyes, she saw the Marquess of Blackthorne winding her lace around his finger and then stuffing it into his pocket. He had known its value at once. He also had recognized the significance of the lozenge, and he understood that the lace had no value to anyone but the Chouteau family. He wanted it for himself, the fiend.
Wicked man. Insufferable lout.
Clenching her fists, Anne fought the rising tide of helpless anger. He had trapped her. Stealing the lace from him would send her to prison. Begging for its return would be useless. Working another lace border in hopes of freeing her father would take far too long. And she could never betray his ideals by using her skills in the manufacture of machine lace.
“What about taking a husband?” Prudence asked. “The gamekeeper has made his intentions clear. I understand William Green is more than a little put out at your rejection. In spite of his jealous manner, he is not so bad, is he? You would have your own cottage, and you could send your wages to your family in Nottingham.”
Anne tilted her head to one side and eyed her friend. “And be subjected to the gamekeeper’s brutishness and vanity night and day? Miss Watson, now it is you who will not be reasonable.”
“Then look for a soldier to wed. I read in The Tattler that Napoleon has escaped from his island exile. Miss Pickworth predicts that England may go to war with France again. Can you imagine? Dreadful thought! Yet, why not make the most of it? As near as we are to France, Tiverton will be full of handsome officers in their regimentals. Soldiers earn solid pay, I should wager. You ought to look for a husband among them as soon as may be.”
Anne lifted herself up on one elbow and studied the young woman in the grand canopied bed nearby. “You must try to rest, Miss Watson. You know how important it is to be fresh at breakfast. I am sure the duke will want you to meet his elder son.”
“Perish the thought! I abhor introductions and polite, meaningless chatter.” Prudence looked at Anne with luminous eyes. “What will you do, dearest friend? Oh, you will not attempt anything foolish, will you?”
Anne let out a deep breath. “Of course not,” she replied. “Do try to get some sleep now.”
As Prudence’s breathing began to slow, Anne studied the curls of mist on the windowpane. Again she thought of the marquess, a man of shadows and darkness. She remembered perfectly the way his fingers had raked through the thick r
umple of black curls on his head, the way his cold gray eyes had assessed her, the way his mouth had curved upward in a cynical smile.
She remembered, too, how his hand had felt as it held hers—warm, firm, strong. She recalled the timbre of his voice as he had pronounced her a beauty, had admired her eyes, had called her hair a sheet of bronze, had asked to be her protector.
Protector? There was only one way a man like Blackthorne could protect a woman like Anne Webster.
“You will forget about that lace, will you not, Anne?”
Prudence murmured, half asleep. “You will heed my advice?”
Anne watched the sky lighten outside the small window of her bedroom. The tiny square patch transformed from black to cobalt and finally to a familiar shade of silver gray, the gray of a man’s eyes shining in firelight.
When the Marquess of Blackthorne arrived at church in his chaise-and-four the following morning, not a female in the room failed to take note. The kitchenmaids whispered at how villainously shiny and black his hair appeared in contrast to the blond locks of his younger brother. The housemaids murmured their observations on the massive firmness of his chin, the wondrous breadth of his shoulders, the disdainful expression of his mouth, and the immense height to which he rose as he strode down the aisle toward the family pew.
The merchants’ wives and daughters commented among themselves on the fine cut of the marquess’s blue coat, its M-notched lapels, shiny brass buttons, flapped pockets, and French cuffs. The mayor’s daughter and her friends regarded with admiration his double-breasted waistcoat of striped valencia, his cream-colored trousers, and his fine leather boots.
The landowners’ daughters and their mothers took note that the future Duke of Marston had returned to England with his skin scandalously tanned and his attention no more fixed upon them than it ever had been. They observed, however, that in spite of his rakish manners and dangerous air, he had returned all the same and was as eligible as ever.
Anne Webster, seated beside Miss Watson in the second row from the back, saw only one thing. The Marquess of Blackthorne had tied beneath his high, stiff collar a cravat of the finest and most elegant silk Honiton lace.
Almost deaf with fury, she heard little of the vicar’s rambling sermon. Instead she watched Blackthorne as he whispered some comment to his brother, chuckled at a tidbit of humor the vicar put forth, and ran his finger around the inside of his collar. Unable to quell it, she had the unchristian wish that her lace would come to life and strangle the man.
After the service, the Chouteau family exited the church first, followed by the inhabitants of their duchy. The duke and duchess departed for Slocombe House in their carriage, while Sir Alexander joined some town friends for a ride on horseback. When Anne emerged into the springtime sunshine, the marquess stood at the bottom of the steps deep in conversation with the vicar.
Miss Watson grabbed Anne’s arm. “Do not say a word! I met Lord Blackthorne at breakfast. Despite his wild appearance yesterday and his abominable reputation, he is very noble and will inherit both title and land from his father. No one can speak boldly to him without dire consequences.”
“But he is wearing my lace. Do you see?”
“You cannot be sure it is yours.”
“It is mine, Miss Watson.”
“Then let him have it. It bears his crest, and you will never prove you made it.”
By the time Anne reached the marquess, it was all she could do to hold her tongue. She crossed her arms, lowered her head to hide her face with her bonnet, and took a deep breath. She was almost past him when he touched her elbow.
“Your Majesty, Queen Anne,” he said in a low voice tinged with mock servitude. “How well you look this morning.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Anne managed through gritted teeth.
“I am happy to see you again today, as well, Miss Watson,” he continued. “You cannot mind if I join you.”
“No, of course not, Lord Blackthorne,” Prudence chirped as the man nodded to the vicar and joined the two women in their walk across the drive toward the road. He slowed his long stride to match theirs and tipped his hat at acquaintances they passed, as though strolling with a tradesman’s daughter and a maid were a perfectly acceptable pastime for a marquess. Anne knew Prudence would bolt given half the chance, so she caught her elbow and hung on.
“Your gown is fetching, Your Highness,” he remarked, obviously speaking to Anne and ignoring her mistress altogether. “Such a subtle shade of fawn reminds me of the multitude of deer I observed during my time in Missouri. I must tell you it is a color that brings a glow to your lovely eyes.”
Anne stared at the road, hardly daring to let herself speak. He was teasing her again, of course, and she had no idea why he found such revolting behavior so amusing. Poor Miss Watson was wilting with shock, her pale skin ashen and her fingers visibly trembling.
“I regret to see,” he went on, “that you choose to cover your stunning hair with a straw bonnet. The lavender and crocuses with which you adorned your hat, however, are an exquisite touch. Your Majesty, you could not look more beautiful.”
She lifted her chin and fixed him with a glare. “And you could not look more like yourself.”
The marquess threw back his head and laughed loudly. “Ah, I am pleased to find your tongue has lost none of its acidity. Did you note my choice of cravat this morning? I selected a fine length of Queen Anne’s lace.”
“How witty,” she returned. “Yet the lace does not belong to you.”
“Do you brand me a thief, Miss Webster?”
Prudence let out a low moan. It was all Anne could do to keep her friend upright. They had left the enclosure of the church and were walking in the lane that led to the main road. Had they turned west, they soon would have entered Tiverton, but they set their direction toward Slocombe House to be in time for the noon meal. In a moment, they would walk onto the road and begin the two-mile journey to the house. As the marquess had left his chaise-and-four at the church, Anne knew his interview could not go on much longer. If only she could keep her wits and forestall Miss Watson’s panic.
“I merely speak the truth,” she told him. “The lace is mine, and a true gentleman would return it to its owner.”
“Unfortunately, I have never been considered a true gentleman,” the marquess replied. “I believe you yourself referred to me as a blackguard.”
“A reputation you only etch more clearly in mind with your unseemly behavior.”
“My reputation is among the least of my concerns, Miss Webster.”
“Mine, on the other hand, concerns me greatly, and if you do not return to your chaise at once, Lord Blackthorne, you may damage it irreparably. I hope you do not believe that your brother’s pursuit of me yesterday in his chamber was in any way encouraged. I have no interest in becoming a momentary fancy for either of the two sons of the Duke of Marston.”
Prudence’s groan could have been heard by anyone passing. To Anne’s dismay, she realized the road was deserted, all the household staff having hurried ahead. The marquess was showing no sign of returning to the churchyard for his transportation.
“Momentary?” he said. “My dear Miss Webster, my proposition to you yesterday was in no way meant to expire at day’s end. If truth be told, you intrigue me more than a little. Where did you come by such pleasant manners?”
“If my manners are seen as pleasant, my lord, you mistake me. I have no pleasant feelings toward you whatsoever.”
Again he chuckled and shook his head. “By George, I have not met anyone I could converse with so easily in years. Certainly never a woman. I wonder who you are, Miss Anne Webster, and how you came to be working as a housemaid at Slocombe.”
“I was engaged by your father, sir, as you very well know.”
“Yet you speak with the words of an educated woman. Your manners are acceptable if not noble, and your wit is delightfully sharp. You do not care for me in the least, and you have not the slightest awe of
my rank. In short, you are so refreshing a creature, I have made up my mind to know you better.”
“Upon my word, sir!” Anne bristled. “Such a bold address appalls me.”
“I concede your evident displeasure, Miss Webster,” he told her. “I am deeply wounded, of course.”
She shot him a disparaging glance. “My apologies.”
“Your father is a schoolmaster,” he guessed. “You hail from Tiverton, and your house is filled with books which you delight to read.”
“My father’s occupations are none of your concern, Lord Blackthorne. We are not under your jurisdiction. Our family dwells in Nottingham.”
“You are a long way from home. What brings you to Devon, then? Surely you could find employment in Nottingham.”
Anne swallowed. She could never tell this man about her father’s imprisonment with the Luddites. As a parson, Mr. Webster had been expected to preach, tend the ill, take tea with his parishioners, but little more.
That he had joined a secret group of men who met in Sherwood Forest and followed the orders of their leader, who called himself General Ludd, had brought utter disgrace to the Webster family. That he had broken into factories and smashed machinery had besmirched his own name forever. He had lost his position with the parish, of course, though the church had allowed his family to go on living in the parsonage until someone could be found to replace him.
Captured and thrown into prison, Mr. Webster had expected the usual sentence for destruction of private property— transportation to Australia. Exile from England for fourteen years would have been bad enough, but during the time he was awaiting trial, the House of Lords passed a bill making such violence a capital offense. Without a skilled attorney to plead his case, he would be hanged.
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