‘You have?’ Letty said with some confusion. ‘We only met a month ago.’
‘Actually, I saw you at my come out. Later, I heard you were staying in London and thought I would like to meet you. But George and I spent most of our time here. I mean before he—left.’
Letty could see her pain. For a split second that mask of smiles and humour left and Letty saw her naked vulnerability.
‘I am glad to meet you now. And glad you are here.’
‘Yes, it is both sad and restful which must sound odd, I know.’ She paused before adding in brighter tones, ‘Anyway, we never seemed to be in the same place, but I always thought you would be vastly entertaining if ever your mother let you talk.’
Letty laughed, touched and surprised that Elsie had even noticed her. ‘My mother never enjoyed my topics of conversation.’
‘Likely because they veered from the dreadfully dull.’
‘I did not discuss my spaniel’s ear wax, at least. Although now I come to think if it, that might be because I did not have a spaniel. I do rather like medical topics and ear wax might be under that category.’
Elsie laughed. ‘You must be talking about Miss Grisgold. You absolutely must stay. Then I can choose you a dress. I would love to do so.’
‘A dress? No—I mean—you are certain this is not adequate?’ Letty glanced down at the afternoon gown which the maid had provided. It seemed fancy enough in comparison to her usual garb. Besides, the aristocracy’s delight in changing clothes umpteen times within a single day seemed a dreadful waste of energy. Her mother had made her do so and she had resented it terribly.
‘Adequate, but not splendiferous. And it would be so sad to see my lovely dresses go to waste and I am certain they will be dreadfully out of fashion by the time I fit into them again. If I ever can.’ She pausing, sighing dramatically. ‘I have one that would be perfect on you. It is cream, but with threads of gold.’
‘It sounds rather fancy,’ Letty said dubiously.
‘But you will try it on. Or there is always blue or green. I am certain green would suit you.’
Letty pulled a face. ‘So my mother said. Consequently I have resembled a cabbage or a bean pole or some form of vegetable most of my life.’
‘Only because she loved ruffles of such size that they masqueraded as leaves. Besides she always chose the wrong shade. Now for your hair, I think we could put loose waves in it. Maria,’ she called to the maid. ‘Do you think loose waves would suit?’
Letty reached up to touch her hair. It was unfashionably short and she always kept it tied back and twisted into a small, neat bun. ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t sound very tidy.’
Elsie laughed. ‘Gracious, since when did any female aspire to tidy hair?’
‘I do. And mine doesn’t like to curl. My mother’s maid would try and it would frizz.’
‘Maria is ever so clever with the tongs. Please, let us dress you up. I love clothes. I am not clever at other things like Tony. You see, that was my thing. There were three of us. Edgar was the eldest. He was dreadfully responsible and just the teeniest, tiniest bit dull. Tony was funny and clever and witty. I am neither responsible nor witty, but I know clothes. I absolutely always know what will suit people.’
‘Funny’—the adjective didn’t exactly suit the man she had recently seen in the library. Nor the shell of the man in the kitchen.
But the boy she had met at her debut. Briefly, she saw him, tall, broad, with that careless, effortless good humour and style that seemed a part of aristocratic life.
I avoid ambition on principle. Sounds too much like hard work. She remembered the words.
‘He seems to have changed, your brother?’
Sorrow and worry flickered across Elsie’s features. ‘Waterloo impacted his sense of humour quite dreadfully.’
Letty noted Elsie’s turn of phrase. She remembered her mother’s strictures. A proper lady does not display any excess of emotion—or any emotion at all for that matter.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Tears shimmered in the other woman’s eyes. Perhaps Elsie had not heard Mrs Barton’s rules. Impulsively, she reached forward to touch her hand. ‘It might help to talk.’
‘Good gracious.’ Elsie gave a laugh which was close to a sob. ‘Wherever did you hear that? That is not good etiquette at all. One’s aim is always to look pleasant, say the proper thing and never, ever let people know that—that one’s heart is breaking.’
Letty said, still holding Elsie’s hand, ‘Likely why I will never make a proper lady.’
Elsie’s grip tightened. ‘Indeed, you are quite different than most people. In a good way. And Tony is better here than in London, at least.’
‘And you?’
‘Better and worse. In London, I kept so busy, I didn’t have time to think and here I have nothing to do but think.’ Elsie’s face fell into wistful lines, but then brightened. ‘Which is why it would be so wonderful to choose you a dress. It would remind me of playing with friends when I was a girl and everything seemed much less complicated.’
Letty hesitated. Firstly, her childhood had never included dressing up with friends. Secondly, her mother had always made her feel like a doll of inferior quality. Indeed, she could still hear the long litany of her faults: her hair was too contrary, her skin too pale, her figure too tall and her freckles...well, freckles should not even exist.
Yet Elsie showed an excited enthusiasm which was contagious.
‘Very well,’ Letty said. ‘But I don’t want to look like...like a lettuce or a doll.’
‘Of course you don’t. As though I would do that to you. Indeed, you will look like Athena or Diana or some absolutely wonderful, statuesque Roman goddess. Or Greek. I was never very good at mythology.’
‘Very well. Although I’ve never heard of a redheaded goddess.’
‘What about a Nordic goddess? Weren’t they redheaded?’
‘Blonde, I think.’
‘Then you will be the first goddess with red hair. Quite fitting because you are definitely original.’
Letty smiled. ‘I’m not exactly certain that is a positive attribute.’
* * *
An hour, Letty peered curiously into the looking glass. She didn’t exactly resemble the promised deity. Her red hair and tall slender figure made that rather difficult. However, deity or not, she looked...attractive. Her eyes appeared huge and very green. Her skin was creamy and her cheeks pleasantly flushed. Even her hair, despite its hue, was almost co-operating. The maid had not tried the tight ringlets her mother favoured, but had curled it into loose waves which she’d pulled into a low twist at the nape of her neck. As always due to its shorter length, tendrils escaped, but they had been curled artfully so that they appeared part of the design, as opposed to merely untidy. Moreover, they framed her face, softening her usually severe aspect.
And the dress... Letty felt an unfamiliar thrill of girlish excitement. Elsie had chosen a gown made in the new Empire style and thus loose, flowing and somewhat diaphanous. Indeed, the light cloth made her feel naked or as if she were in her peignoir. Certainly, there was a freedom to it which was a pleasant change from the dresses of her debut, but it also incited a nervousness, reminiscent of those dreams in which one had forgotten to dress.
‘Is this quite decent?’ Her hand touched her throat. ‘The neckline seems quite low.’
‘Good gracious, of course it is. Do you not go out at all? The style is everywhere in London.’
‘I go out as infrequently as possible,’ Letty said, wryly. While not exactly shy, she knew herself to be awkward and both bored by subjects which interested other women and unable to feign that interest. Indeed, it was one of the many reasons she knew she could never marry. Likely she’d doom both her spouse and any offspring to being social outcasts.
Sometimes, she wondered if, despit
e life’s hardships, belonging was not easier in the lower classes. Would one be valued more for one’s practical abilities and less for one’s looks and wit?
‘But you must go to London on occasion. I am certain Florence would take you. And didn’t you spend several months there after your come out?’
‘Indeed, but I rather prefer a quiet life.’
‘But whatever do you do? You must be as bored as I?’
Letty chewed her lip. She could hardly admit to the hours spent in the small cottages helping children survive whooping cough or other childhood diseases. Nor her hours of fascinating research into childbed fever.
And certainly not that she had spent more time in London wrapping wounds than listening to the opera.
‘I read,’ she said.
‘I do, too, on occasion. La Belle Assemblée and Ackermann’s Repository. Indeed, I do not know how anyone could keep up with the latest fashion without them. Have you finished the latest issues?’
‘Not yet,’ Letty said, thinking of her huge stack of medical journals she must peruse.
‘Well, you must. I will lend it to you. Oh, I am so glad you are here. It is almost dinner. And even though I can’t come down it is lovely to have had your company.’
‘You can’t come down?’ Letty stiffened. She felt a nervous tightness within her stomach and an unusual squeak in her voice.
‘No, my new doctor insists that I have rest, eat bland food and keep my feet elevated.’
Curse Dr Hatfield!
‘Right.’ Letty rubbed her fingers nervously across the fine silk. ‘Of course, you must take care of yourself.’
‘But don’t worry. You won’t eat alone. My brother will be there. He has been drinking much less since we came and was well known for his wit previously. Hopefully, you will enjoy his company.’
Letty nodded, although she was not certain that ‘enjoy’ was quite the right adjective for the peculiar mix of feelings Lord Anthony engendered.
‘Maria will lead you to the dining room, as this place can be a veritable rabbit warren.’
‘Um—thank you. I hope you rest and enjoy a good supper.’
Elsie sighed with dramatic effect. ‘It is likely I will be fed something bland like rice pudding. It is most trying.’
Letty smiled. She wished for a moment she could share her identity. How could she ever develop friendships if she must always hide behind Dr Hatfield’s persona?
The maid led Letty through long corridors and she was glad of this. As Elsie had stated, Beauchamp was vast and complex. It must have been built in Tudor times or before. The hallways were narrow, the doorways quite small and made of stone. Moreover, it seemed to consist of a network of corridors which converged at a tall staircase which led down into a vast hall.
Aware of an unusual fluttering of nerves, she descended the stairs, pausing on the threshold of the dining room. Like the hall, it, too, was huge with a vaulted ceiling of grey stone, more reminiscent of a cathedral than a dining room. At its far end, the hearth appeared as an immense dark orifice, taking at least half of the wall and topped by a heavy wood mantel. Tapestries hung on either side, patterned with hunting scenes and wild boars.
The daylight was fading so the huge candelabras had been lit and hung low over the table. They were of Gothic design, constructed of a heavy dark metal and lit with a myriad of flickering candles, their golden light reflected many times within the huge, gilt-framed mirrors hanging on the other walls.
Lord Anthony stood at the hearth. The room’s size, the vast darkness of the unlit hearth and mantel, should have diminished his appearance. It didn’t. Instead, it enhanced his height, the Gothic medieval tone making him look less civilised, the strong cheekbones and square jaw hard and uncompromising.
Even the scar, snaking down his cheek, seemed to only serve to make him appear dangerous. Indeed, the pain from his injuries was still visible in the leanness of his face and frame. His physique and the grim lines of his face had none of the softness of good living visible in so many of Britain’s gentry.
He glanced up at her arrival. His brows contracted sharply so that he seemed to glower with greater intensity than was usual.
‘Good evening, Miss Barton,’ he said, although not in a tone that would suggest there was anything good about it.
His reaction surprised her. She had thought she looked...if not attractive...adequate. His expression, however, was not approving. If he had not wanted her to stay, he should have been more forthright.
‘Lord Anthony,’ she said, titling her chin. ‘Do you look so disagreeable to all of your guests or have I displeased you in some way?’
‘I—am not displeased. My face is not as flexible these days.’
She raised a brow. ‘You have been caught out scowling. Do not aim to throw me off by fiddle-faddle suggesting that your injuries are to blame. The movement in your hand might be impacted, but the wound on your face is largely superficial. It might cause a slight tightening of the skin, but in no way impacts the muscles.’
His expression became darker or, at least, more unreadable.
* * *
The woman’s blunt words were downright rude and the opposite to that demonstrated by any usual female.
Indeed, Tony had not wanted to have dinner with this odd woman and now wished he had not acquiesced to Elsie’s notion. Phillips would have been totally capable of seeing the woman home.
Miss Barton had seen him at his weakest. She had seen him in whatever stupor or madness had struck him this afternoon. Moreover, he had subsequently behaved in a ludicrously juvenile manner. Instead of promptly and politely dispatching her for tea with Elsie, he’d almost kissed her.
He’d wanted to kiss her.
And he hadn’t kissed or wanted to kiss anyone for a long time.
Besides, the woman was entirely unpredictable. Who comes to tea and stitches up the neighbour? Who wears grey or brown morning, noon and night like a governess on much reduced wages and then transforms into a flame...a burnished statue or however her current look might be described?
No, not a statue. She was too human, the silk draped too gently over her skin with none of the harshness of stone or marble.
Her usual attire had made her seem tall, accentuating her natural slim physique. In contrast, the low neckline and the soft cloth made him aware not only of her vibrant energy, but also of her curves and femininity.
‘Lord Anthony, do I have a smudge on my nose or some other problem with my appearance?’ she asked in that direct way of hers.
‘No,’ he said, dragging back his attention.
‘Then may I ask why you are staring? Your sister assured me that this gown was quite the rage in London.’
‘No doubt. It is just somewhat unlike your usual appearance.’ And too bloody distracting.
Miss Barton gave a wonderful chuckle, low and rich. ‘I have never worn anything like it before in my entire life. But Lady Beauchamp greatly enjoyed orchestrating the transformation.’
That, too, was what was so unusual—this ability to laugh at herself. Women tended to take everything so seriously, but Miss Barton’s humour disarmed, all the more so because her demeanour was often solemn.
He felt his brow furrow further. Women belonged in categories. Some were like his mother and sister: kind, pleasant, amusing and appropriate.
Then there were those that one never introduced to one’s mother or sister: actresses and courtesans. One took them to dances, balls, masquerades. They entertained.
Young men usually enjoyed the latter and eventually matured and found suitable wives from among the former.
Miss Barton was neither.
‘Perhaps you are hungry?’ she suggested. ‘I always find I get into a dreadful mood when I am hungry.’
That irked him also. She appeared so calm, so entirely self-possessed and in no
way threatened by his distemper. Good Lord, even Elsie tiptoed around him or had in the months since his injury. And any mention of his injury was a conversation stopper. He need only bring up the topic and people skirted away or spoke of the weather. They certainly did not give him some nonsense about muscles and study him as if he were an experiment or frog ready for dissection.
Just then Dobson entered, announcing the first course.
‘Right,’ Tony said, both thankful for the interruption and somewhat belatedly grasping hold of his manners. ‘Shall we?’ He nodded towards the dining table.
‘Of course,’ Letty said, walking briskly.
Despite his distemper, he had to smile at her movements. Elsie might have made over her apparel, but his sister had forgotten to inform Miss Barton that ladies do not march or stride towards the dinner table as though unfed for a month of Sundays.
Or maybe Elsie had mentioned that fact and Miss Barton just hadn’t given a damn.
They sat at the vast table. Since Elsie’s prescribed bedrest he had taken to eating in the library. He did not like the study, which still reminded him too much of George, and preferred the library to the solitary formality of this room.
Today, it felt more formal than ever. Good heavens, Elsie must have instructed the servants to use every crystal or silver widget available. The whole table sparkled. The huge candelabras had been lit as were the wall sconces so that the whole room seemed aglow.
Moreover, Miss Barton’s gown caught the light, giving her an almost luminescent quality which was magnified and multiplied many times within the room’s mirrors. The effect was captivating. Breathtaking.
And Lord Anthony was not of the disposition, either before or after his accident, to feel such a compelling reaction to any woman’s looks or gown.
A Debutante in Disguise Page 9