Araminta (Regency Belles Series Book 2) (4 page)

‘Excellent,’ Miss Orksville announced, flipping over the different swatches. ‘Exactly what we need.’

Still standing, Araminta bent forward and pulled the bundle from her hand. She shook the samples. They rippled over like pages of a soft book. ‘I can’t have these. They’re too plain.’ She tossed the swatches onto the sofa.

The two older ladies regarded her, then each other.

‘I assure you they are the latest thing, Miss Neave.’

‘But they’re so . . . insipid.’

Miss Martlesham rescued them and rose. ‘But just look at this one.’ She held out a square of cambric muslin delicately embroidered with primroses. ‘This is the very latest style. No-one has had it made up as yet.’ The faded eyes flickered over Araminta’s hair. ‘Very few young ladies have the colouring to support any form of yellow. You will be quite the exception.’

‘Listen to Miss Martlesham, Araminta. She dressed Lady Charlotte Brigstone for her debut this year. She attached the Duke of Charminster’s elder son inside two months.’

‘Excellent,’ Archibald Neave said. ‘You clearly know how to bring a girl up to snuff, ma’am.’

Miss Orksville cast him an evaluating look. Such language was not to be heard in refined drawing rooms. There was more to her task then she had realised.

Staring at the floor and with her hands gripped in the folds of in her unsuitable red gown, Araminta listened in silence to the two women’s discussion of what she would wear. Her nails dug deeper into her palms. She nodded wordlessly at the proposals for two morning dresses in delicate checks or embroidered muslins, all trimmed with flounces, ribbons, tucks or frills. Frills, she told herself, twisting her fingers even more tightly, I’m not a frills person. A further nod approved, or seemed to, a riding habit of proper construction, that is to say without the horror of a divided skirt. Three walking dresses and matching spencers joined the list. Two dinner gowns in cream and palest green muslin were silently accepted. The prospect of two ball gowns briefly lessened her disapproval. Their proposed form had it rising again. Neither was in the brilliant jewel colours she loved. One would be white gauze, trimmed with tiny embroidered leaves of green ivy. A matching, trailing sash would tie at each side. The second was pale lavender silk with a silver gauze half-gown over it. A ribboned Grecian wreath of grapes and vine leaves would decorate the bodice and short, puffed sleeves. Araminta concentrated on her father’s hopeful face to stop herself from saying honestly what she thought of the proposals.

‘And,’ announced a breathless Miss Martlesham, looking up from the copious list she had entered in a little notebook. ‘If you agree, I shall send to Mister William in St Martin’s Lane. I saw some buttons there, most beautifully carved in amethyst which will fasten the half-gown superbly.’ She cast an enquiring glance at Archibald who nodded again. ‘Excellent,’ she continued, much encouraged by his oblivion to the rapidly-mounting financial tally. ‘A pair of matching slippers embroidered with grapes will complement the gown to perfection.’ She drew a flourishing line under the last item. ‘Will you be requiring an itemised account, sir?’

Archibald waved a hand. ‘No. Not at all. A Dutch reckoning will do.’ He hesitated. ‘But no nonsense, mind. I have an idea of how much I’ll have to lay out so I know what to expect.’

Miss Martlesham’s spine stiffened. ‘I have never had any such suggestion made before, sir. All of my ladies have been more that appreciative of my terms. And their fathers.’

‘I’m sure Mr Neave never intended to suggest otherwise,’ Miss Orksville said. Her stern gaze settled on her new employer. ‘Did you?’

‘What? Eh?’ Archibald sat up straighter.

‘We have been fortunate to secure Miss Martlesham’s service. She is a
modiste
of the highest order and much in demand.’

‘No. No, of course not . . . I mean yes. I mean I’d no such intention at all.’

Miss Martlesham’s spine relaxed. She turned her flushed face to Miss Orksville. ‘I’ve noted all the additional items for you.’ She scribbled on a fresh page of her notebook then tore it out. ‘I recommend these suppliers for the shoes and bonnets and so forth.’

Miss Orksville took the proffered page. ‘Thank you. I shall certainly call on them if my own favourites are unable to help us. Though I suspect many of them are yours too.’

After a few more pleasantries Miss Martlesham left. Visions of several weeks of assured work filled her mind. With this much to do, she would have to call upon all of the junior seamstresses she occasionally employed to help out. She just hoped that she would not disappoint. Her new client appeared a generous source of present and, she hoped, future employment. Clasping her basket firmly in front of her, she crossed her fingers and hoped that the stunning young miss would soon be accepted into the
ton
.

Of the four people party to the discussion, only one was less than pleased.

‘Well, ’Minta,’ Archibald said, beaming widely at his daughter and a rather satisfied-looking Miss Orksville. ‘That will have you bang up to the mark.’

‘So it seems, Pa,’ Araminta replied, emphasising the final word and distaining a sidelong glance at her tormentor. ‘Excuse me please.’

She took herself to her bedchamber. Flinging open the clothes press, she extracted the gold riding habit and shook out the creases. The velvet billowed. She cast it on the bed and rummaged for the bonnet to join it. Satisfied, she paced the room, arms folded, muttering every unladylike word she could summon. Back at the clothes press she extracted more and more gowns until they covered the bed with a tangled mass of vivid colours and silks.

She stayed there all afternoon. Eventually she subsided onto the floor at a window. Elbows on the sill, chin on her fists, she stared through the gaps between the buildings at life outside. Carriages passed into view and left. Pedestrians strolled. Persons of varying degree disappeared down basement steps with baskets or bundles.

‘Oh, Pa,’ Araminta sighed to the pane of glass, ‘why do we have to stay here? I don’t like the town. I’d much rather live in the country.’ Her mouth folded into a firm line. ‘And I don’t want to marry some duke.’ A thought struck her. ‘Miss Orksville hasn’t married.’ The thought developed. ‘She has managed on her own. If she can do it, so can I.’ She pushed herself upright. ‘I won’t marry. I shall have a house in the country and horses. Lots of horses.’ Her chin rose. She gave a determined nod of her head. ‘That’s what I shall do.’

She hurried to the bed. Clothes tossed hither and thither, she searched for the brightest, most stunningly unsuitable dinner dress of her entire collection. It was not there. The long strip of tapestry with a tassel on the end hanging beside the fireplace was the bell-pull. She grabbed it, tugging so hard strands of the tassel came away in her hand. She brushed them onto the floor and paced the room until her maid scratched on the door and entered.

‘Hollins, where’s my deep blue evening gown?’

Libby Hollins, the parlourmaid Nesbit had offered as lady’s maid, flushed. ‘The lady told me to pack it into a chest upstairs with the others. Them Mattie couldn’t fit into the press in here that is.’

‘Go and fetch it, please.’

Hollins clutched her fingers in alarm. ‘Oh, miss. What’ll the lady say?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’re my maid. You’ll do as I say.’

Even as head parlourmaid, Hollins had seen a little of young, aristocratic girls. What she knew of them from servants’ hall gossip had never suggested they harboured any degree of rebellion. Swallowing hard, she backed out of the room, hoping the old lady wouldn’t blame her for the reappearance of the dress. She contemplated pretending she couldn’t find it but not for long. The entire house had decided the nabob gave his daughter everything she wanted. Hollins was not going to risk her new post. She was fast approaching her middle years. That was no time to be searching for a new position.

Several minutes later she delivered the gown to Araminta then hurried away downstairs hoping Cook would let her make a cup of tea from breakfast’s leaves.

Alone with the deep blue silk, Araminta held it up.

‘There,’ she announced to the room. ‘That’s what I shall wear. For as long as I can.’

Chapter Four

S
omething, Constance Fosbury decided, was definitely going on next door. It might have been supposed the Viscountess would have soon lost interest in her neighbours. Nothing could have been further from the truth. She was by nature an inquisitive, tittle-tattling woman. Hovering by one of the tall windows of her drawing room, she watched the footman hurry off only to return in a hackney with an unprepossessing person who was clutching a basket. Ignoring the afternoon tea tray she lingered until she saw the unknown woman depart. The female walked briskly away in the direction of the Ellonby’s house opposite.

What, wondered Lady Fosbury, would dear Sylvia make of all this? Never one to let a chance of a gossip slip away, she summoned her maid and sent her flying for her newest spencer and matching plumed bonnet. Moments later she was out of her front door, down the three steps and walking with ill-disguised haste and no following footman to the town house of the Duke of Ellonby.

The Duchess had not returned from the low-season sad crush at Marguerite Sheppington’s house until two that morning. Consequently she was only just awake. Still
en déshabillée
, she received her unexpected visitor in her boudoir.

Lady Fosbury sat impatiently on the chaise while Sylvia’s maid completed the placement of the pale gold curls that contained no hint of grey. A degree of envy entered the Fosbury soul. Sylvia was only a year or two younger than she. There should surely be some grey in her hair. It was as well dear Sylvia held the same agreeable opinions as herself, otherwise she would have disliked her intensely.

Once the toilette was complete the peeresses descended to the parlour. As soon as the door closed Lady Fosbury launched into speech.

‘Dearest Sylvia, have you seen what is happening?’

‘Happening? Happening where?’

‘In the Perlethorpe’s, of course. There’s been coming and going all day. And all from the front. I distinctly saw a footman leave that way.’

A pair of delicately arched eyebrows rose in her friend’s lovely face. Sylvia had been the prize of the season, if looks were anything to go by. And they must have been since rumour had it her dowry was minimal. Those in the know however, who were few indeed, were aware the frail young Duke wanted a girl from a family whose daughters were renowned producing sons. Sylvia’s elder sisters had both presented their lords with a string of them. Fewer still knew it had been a love match from first sight.

‘The front?’ the Duchess said. ‘How strange. Who has taken it? Did Maria Perlethorpe ever say?’

‘Not to me. I thought she was remarkably secretive about it.’

‘It’s such a shame.’ Lady Ellonby shook her blonde head. Her lace cap fluttered. ‘But then that’s what comes from having a husband who gambles night and day.’ She adjusted the delicate fichue around her shoulders. ‘Have you seen the renters?’

‘As it so happens I was taking a breath of air by the window when they arrived. Three vehicles, my dear. Three. I ask you,’ declared Lady Fosbury, who rarely left London for her husband’s country estates with fewer than six. ‘Two travelling coaches
and
a luggage flat piled with trunks. There were even boxes strapped to the back of the coach.’

‘But what about the people?’

‘A large man – dreadfully overdressed – and a woman. Much younger of course. I took them as man and wife.’

‘Let us hope so. We need no further scandal there.’

‘But, my dear, you will never guess who entered the house shortly afterwards.’

The Duchess’s blue eyes opened wider than they had so far that morning when she heard. ‘Wilhelmina? Whatever was she doing there?’

‘I have no idea.’ Constance Fosbury shook her head. ‘But then you never can tell with her. Don’t you remember? She turned down the perfectly good offer her Mama had found because she . . . what was it? Wanted to travel. Whoever heard the like? Clayton Maubry it was. Vast estates in Devon . . . or Scotland . . . or somewhere like that.’ A disapprovingly snort issued from her ladyship. ‘Her Mama never recovered. He married the youngest Babington girl.’

Lady Ellonby’s interest appeared to wane. ‘I think I was still in the schoolroom at the time.’

Lady Fosbury clamped her tongue firmly between her teeth. Her instant rejoinder remained unuttered but her nostrils flared. In tones redolent with forced calm she said, ‘I was barely out of it myself, of course.’

The Duchess’s attention had wandered. Her pale gold curls shook a further time. ‘Poor dear Maria. She hated having to turn all the staff off. Some of them had been with her for years.’

‘I wonder if they will have to let the house go too?’

‘Oh, never say so.’ A gentle sigh drifted between rosy lips. ‘Poor Maria.’

Silence descended into the pretty room. A tap on the door broke it. Two young men entered. One was tall and moved with the grace of a practiced athlete. He was immaculately dressed in a restrained version of the current fashion. The other was shorter. His clothing was equally fashionable, if somewhat crumpled, but worn with an air that suggested its owner had been surveying country acres not promenading Bond Street as a noble scion.

Lady Ellonby’s face brightened at the sight of her handsome sons. ‘Darlings,’ she cried, hands reaching out to them. ‘How wonderful.’

They bowed to her and kissed her fingers and cheek in turn. The older of the two, George, Marquess of Levington and the Duke’s heir, had taken after his mother’s family with classical features and pale hair. The younger was Lord Frederick Danver. He was of more robust appearance. A pleasant open face and disordered brown hair made him appear the more approachable of the two, a quality that led some to underestimate his decided nature.

‘Make your duties to Lady Fosbury, darlings.’

Both men bowed.

‘Good day, Lady Fosbury,’ the Marquess said. ‘I hope I see you well?’

‘Indeed.’ The greying head under the plumed bonnet inclined slightly. ‘Your Mama must be pleased to have you both home.’

‘Mama is,’ Lord Frederick said. ‘But His Grace is not.’

His frankness caused his Mama to wince. ‘Of course he is, darling. Or would be if only George would stop plaguing him about buying an army commission.’

‘Mama –’ her elder son began.

‘No.’ The Duchess raised her hand. ‘You must not upset me. His Grace has said so. Why must you persist, George? Frederick has no notion of vanishing across the seas to face goodness knows what savages.’

Lord Frederick gave a smiling shudder. ‘Not I, Mama. There’s far too much to interest me here. My horses take what time I have to spare.’

‘Well I will hear no more of it.’ She produced an indulgent frown. ‘I suppose you were out until the breath of dawn again.’

‘Not so, Mama,’ Frederick said. ‘Town is very quiet at present. Except for dowagers and disappointed girls. I think I may go down to Lidgate. My second-best mare is about to foal. ‘

‘Tsk,’ the doting mother said. ‘If you two would only apply yourselves there would be two fewer unattached girls. And I will not have such common talk, Freddie. Take yourselves off. Ride in the Row or something.’

Frederick grinned. ‘Hold hard, ma’am. We’ve yet to break our fast.’

His mother winced. ‘Hold hard? What sort of talk is that?’ She flapped a pale hand at her sons. ‘Be off with you. Lady Fosbury is telling me about her new neighbours.’

‘Who are they, ma’am?’ Frederick asked. ‘Do we know them?’

George’s pale eyes brightened. ‘An army officer, perhaps?’

‘A married couple, I believe,’ Lady Fosbury said. ‘And definitely not in the army.’ She shuddered at the memory of Archibald Neave’s tailoring.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ the Duchess said. ‘Now be off with you. I know you won’t want to listen to our chatter. Go and eat or ride or whatever.’

Her sons executed two perfect bows and left the room.

‘Lovely boys, my dear Sylvia.’ Lady Fosbury said when the door had closed behind them.

‘I own they are quite engaging. I have been wonderfully lucky to have two such as they. His Grace was so pleased he gave me the most splendid diamond parure for George and one of sapphires for Freddie.’ A sweet smile illuminated her face until she recalled herself. ‘And you have a son to be proud of too. What an excellent match he has made.’

The Marchioness harboured a slight suspicion that her dearest friend was making a point that touched upon her disappointment in not producing a spare to go with the heir. In that regard her daughter Elise did not count. ‘It is such a relief to have Linton affianced,’ she countered. ‘Perhaps Levington’s fancy will be taken next Season. He’s but twenty-seven, isn’t he?’ The mother nodded, her mouth a soft arc. ‘And Frederick is twenty-four I believe.’

The Duchess sighed. ‘Neither of them shows the least regard for marriage. But then Ellonby was entering his fortieth year when he asked for me so there is no need to hurry apart from . . .’

Her voice faded. The Duke’s failing health was well known.

Lady Fosbury was almost moved to charity. ‘I’m
sure
Levington will find an attraction next Season. There’ll soon be an heir to reassure His Grace . . . I expect.’

‘I hope so. Marriage should divert George from this mad idea of sailing off to Portugal. Or Spain, or wherever. Then perhaps we may all be quiet again.’

Lady Fosbury nodded. Despite his frail appearance, the Duke was renowned for his icy temperament. He could, with one glacial word, shatter unwise pretention in the hardiest of souls. And dear Sylvia had once, quite indiscreetly as Lady Fosbury told only a select few, indicated that her lord had occasionally reduced his sons to remorseful silence when they had incurred his displeasure. She was certain this roof must have heard much unhappy discourse beneath it. They would certainly wipe the gentle expression off the Duchess’s angelic face. Lady Fosbury produced a falsely sympathetic smile.

Her smile would have widened had she been privy to events inside her neighbour’s house that afternoon. Araminta was ignoring all Miss Orksville had said about the softly moderated tones for young ladies. Hands on the hips of her favourite burgundy striped gown she faced her father.

‘Really pa, I can’t do this any more.’ She paced across the pale carpet to where he was seated beside the empty fire. ‘You’re making me be someone I’m not. Suppose some duke or other does ask to marry me because of it. I’ll have to pretend for the rest of my life.’ She dropped to her knees and clasped her hands on his. ‘You don’t want me living a lie, do you Pa?’

Archibald Neave looked down at his daughter’s arresting face. The troubled expression on it caused him some pain. Even so, he patted her hands and kept to his resolve.

‘No, of course not. But we said it won’t be like that all the time, didn’t we? We agreed the gowns and such are only to get you past the dowagers. The sort of man you’ll attract will be pleased as Punch to find you have spirit.’ The unhappy face struck at his affections even more. He rose to the challenge. ‘I know what we’ll do. They’re still painting the phaeton I ordered for you so what say I buy you a horse? You can gallop it along this Row place. Show ’em all what a spirited girl you are.’

Araminta’s eyes brightened. ‘Will you? I –’ She tilted her head. The bright eyes examined him. After a second or two, she laughed. ‘I know what you’re doing, Pa. You’re trying to divert me.’ The half-hopeful expression he always wore when he was troubled for her happiness touched her. She Pted his knees with an amused sigh. Then she frowned. ‘It will be a proper horse though, won’t it? Horrid gowns are one thing but not a horse. Please don’t buy me some staid old mare Miss Orksville would like.’

‘I’ll buy you the best there is. Now – you and Miss Orksville settle your furbelows and I’ll away to Tattersall’s. It’s Monday, sale day. I’ll see what I can find. You never know, we might strike it lucky.’ He ruffled his daughter’s titan curls. ‘Fair deal?’

‘Fair deal, Pa.’

‘Good, now off you go and find the woman.’

Araminta pulled a face. ‘She wants me to walk around with a book on my head.’

Archibald Neave blinked. ‘Sounds odd to me.’ He half shrugged. ‘I suppose she knows what she’s about. Be sure to tell her I’ll take a hackney since she’s commanded the barouche for the pair of you.’

Comfortably established in the parlour, Wilhelmina Orksville was waiting for her charge to arrive. A book of improving sermons lay on the fragile table beside her chair.

Araminta squashed down her glee at the thought of the horse. She pasted a smile on her face. ‘Here I am, ma’am.’

‘Indeed you are.’ Miss Orksville consulted a large hunter watch lying beside the book. For a moment Araminta thought she was going to be told she was late. ‘We shall spend the next fifteen minutes practicing your deportment.’ Wilhelmina held out the book of sermons. ‘Put it on your head and let me see you walk around the room.’

Araminta plonked the small book on top of her curls and took a pace forward. The book slid sideways. She caught it.

‘Try again. This time keep your chin up and don’t look down at the floor.’

The book was replaced, only to fall off backwards. It hit the rug. Araminta gritted her teeth. This was not as easy as she had expected.

After the promised fifteen minutes, Miss Orksville allowed her to stop. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘You have made more progress than I expected.’

Taken by surprise, Araminta smiled.

So did Miss Orksville. Miss Neave was not the first girl to discover the challenge of proving Miss Orksville wrong was irresistible. ‘Now, we will spend a few moments examining the household accounts.’ She pulled a thin notebook towards her. ‘Not that there are many.’ She opened it at the first page. The word LINEN was written at the top in a neat hand with a short list underneath. Picking up a pencil she indicated the items. ‘These are the items we will have to buy. All of them are new so there is no need as yet to think about sides-to-middle for the sheets. However, you do need to be aware how to ensure your housekeeper rotates them properly to even out the wear.’

The next few minutes sent Araminta’s boredom level plunging to a new low. Miss Orksville handed her the cook’s menu list. Pulling the scrappy notes towards her she ran her finger down the meals. Dish after dish of meat was inscribed. Beef. Mutton. Pork. Quail. Rabbit. Every conceivable variety appeared in the course of two days’ menus. Araminta sighed with every second breath.