Counterfeit Countess (17 page)

“He makes an excellent job of your appearance,” she said.

“I’ll have you know I do most of the chore of dressing myself, except for the final touches when I allow him to work his magic. He concentrates on keeping my wardrobe in order, trimming my hair, and shaving me. Not that I can’t perform many of those tasks for myself, but it would be beneath my dignity to do so, don’t you agree?”

When she risked another glance, he appeared again straight-faced, but with that gleam in his eyes that betrayed him, to her at least. A secret smile. “Totally,” she said, maintaining her solemnity, as befitted the situation. Perhaps she should have opted for the veil.

Outside the church a few people lingered, but not the Graywood party. Leaving the servants to sit at the back, John led Faith inside, waiting to escort the dowager into the pew of her choice. The high-backed seats gave a measure of privacy, but people could see them if they walked past or sat in the pews on their opposite side.

Nevertheless it meant the maids could come forward and help their mistresses to lift their veils. They tenderly smoothed the scraps of gauze on top of the bonnets in a careful arrangement of folds, adding discreet pins. Faith watched with interest, but gave Robinson a nod of dismissal. She didn’t need anyone to help her take anything off. The chill of the stones struck through her new,
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warm pelisse, so she would retain it, even though she could hear her mother’s voice from years ago. “You won’t feel the benefit when you go back into the cold.”

She didn’t care, she wanted to keep warm. She wished she could lean back into John’s body. As she recalled, he positively radiated heat. A crying shame she hadn’t known that before, when soldiers’

wives could use the warmth.

She carried her own prayer book, creased and worn now, her father’s father’s final gift to her before she left his house for the last time in order to become a bride to John Smith. When she’d seen relief in his features, she’d understood, but it had still hurt. One less child to provide for.

Faith had always sensed atmospheres and she sensed the tension and anticipation here, almost touch it. Such high emotions did not suit her, but she could tolerate them, and she set herself to do so.

After all, they might not be the cynosure of every eye.

Except that she was. Some members of the congregation would know him a little, from his boyhood. He may have visited while on leave from the army, she had no idea. Tinglingly aware of invisible eyes on her, she stood to sing the first hymn and kept her gaze strictly forward. She could not afford to slip for John’s sake. No behaving like a vulgar hussy, or worse, a provincial.

The vicar kept his sermon mercifully short, only half an hour, and it didn’t have any pointed references to anything she caught.

She knew that some clerics, in London in particular, where they had a distinctive and influential audience, would use the opportunity to make their voices heard on a political matter. If he did, she did not catch it.

Would he want to marry her here? John hadn’t mentioned the topic again and he’d only dangled it in front of her, like bait on a fishing line in the first place. The quiet period of reflection gave her the chance to think matters through.

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The woman who attracted his interest enough to make him
want
to marry her would be fortunate indeed, but that did not form his reason for marrying her. A mixture of duty and convenience, rather. She could not give him the heir he so obviously needed.

Tears pricked her eyes during the last hymn before Eucharist. But when John glanced at her, she had the presence of mind to glance down, as if she needed to read the words. Already he meant more to her than he should.

The walk forward to receive the Host did not prove as much an ordeal as walking back afterwards, because they had to face the congregation. Deeply aware of John standing behind her, his solid proximity a protective gesture she appreciated, she still had to gaze to the front. She tried to school her features to show nothing but polite interest. It would be good practice.

They retook their seats and half an hour later they were free.

Although she wished to hurry down the aisle with her head down, Faith had to instead take John’s arm and greet a few people. She allowed the dowager to introduce her to her particular friends, ladies who intimidated with a look. They looked at her. Too much, though she hid the terror that clutched cold claws around her heart as well as she could manage. She’d read about these august personages, even seen one or two at a distance, the ones married to military men.

With a bold tilt of her chin she decided she had done all they had and more. She would not allow them to intimidate her. For John’s sake she would face them and answer their questions as best she could.

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, a Queen of Almacks, the place that had dared to refuse the Duke of Wellington access when he’d turned up in the wrong clothes, gazed down her haughty nose at Faith. Nearly six feet tall, the lady had wed one of the wealthiest and best connected men in London, and she had the arrogance to prove it. “When did you make your come-out?” she demanded.

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Faith didn’t stammer and she didn’t flush, but didn’t need John’s warning touch on her arm to know her reply mattered. “I did not. I’m a vicar’s daughter, ma’am, and I married from home.”

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell shot John a sharp glance. “You have been married for some time?”

Faith answered before John could take over the conversation.

“No, ma’am, I was married before.”

“I see. Anyone we would know?”

She allowed herself a faint smile. “I doubt it, ma’am. He was an officer in Lord Graywood’s regiment.” No need to mention how junior an officer. “After his death just before Waterloo, I married John.”

“I see. An interesting history.” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell gave her a long, considering stare. “Not one that fills me with confidence.”

Oh no. The disapprobation would kill any chance she had of being accepted by society’s inner circle. If John was to meet the people he needed to consolidate the earldom’s influence and wealth, she couldn’t lose. Unless she bolted. There was always that.

She had to work out her plan of escape more carefully. Her alternative, in case it should go wrong. John was better off without her. She would fight for him before she did anything of that nature.

She absolutely refused to leave him alone to face the ruin of a once-great family but she had only agreed to remain until he had no use for her any more.

“I supported the army. I worked alongside the men to remind them what it meant to win and to lose. I ministered to the sick and I took a hand in reading to the wounded.”

“Very commendable I’m sure.”

She hadn’t helped one bit. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell turned away. Faith’s heart sank.

John bent close to her and murmured in her ear. “Only the first skirmish. Hold fast.”

Yes. A campaign wasn’t won overnight.

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Then the dowager took an interest in the conversation.

Seemingly absorbed talking to someone else, a small woman Faith didn’t recognise. Hardly surprising, considering how few people she knew. “I will hold visits in which my closest acquaintances will give their condolences. You may wish to attend some of these.”

“What time?” John put in.

“At two and probably all afternoon.” She glanced at John, showing him how little she appreciated his interruption. “It would be advisable,” she said in a voice lower than her usual stentorian terms.

Faith hadn’t needed her to say that. Of course it would, for the last countess and the present one not to appear at odds with each other. Appearing together in public, or as public as the dowager could manage in her state of mourning would only work for her.

She wondered why the lady would do this, when she seemed do antagonistic towards her, but decided that in the end, Family was All. It superseded everything else in the countess’s opinion.

She would do it.

Back at the house, Faith excused herself, drained by the experience and longing to put off the blacks that had dampened her spirits. The dowager showed no sign of anything but calm acceptance of their reception that morning. Not for the first time Faith wondered if she had any feelings at all. She’d lost her sons.

Charlotte and Louisa appeared quite bowed down. At least the dowager sent them to their rooms and told them she’d have refreshments brought upstairs. The necessary fast before the Eucharist had left Faith unfashionably and improperly ravenous.

She didn’t attempt to hide her pleasure when the butler informed them they could partake of a hearty breakfast at their convenience.

Opting for half an hour, the most she thought she could cope with, Faith went upstairs, only to come full tilt against a changed bedroom.

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A being she could only describe as Superior straightened from her study of one of the garments laid across the bed. Taller than Faith, she had an air of stately confidence. Around thirty years of age, perhaps older and dressed in muted but excellent clothes that Faith recognised as better than the garments she had owned in the past. Any of them.

The woman swept a graceful curtsey. “Ma’am, I’m Turvey. His lordship engaged me as your maid. I regret that I arrived on the Sabbath, but I was told you wished for my services as soon as I was available.” Her attention strayed to where Robinson stood open-mouthed by Faith’s side. “I was previously engaged by Lady Honoria Howard, but she has married and chose to dispense with my services in favour of a woman engaged by her new mother-in-law.” Her cold eyes showed what she thought of that, and her sharp nose seemed to gain extra shine at the tip. Or perhaps she had moved it slightly so the light from the window glanced against it more fully.

“I see.” She had to take control for the start, but she needed this woman on her side. Easy. Easier than persuading society matrons she was one. This woman could become part of Faith’s armour. “I trust we can deal well together. Robinson here is my maid from my previous life, which was considerably more sheltered, and if you agree, she will become your assistant.”

Turvey narrowed her dark little eyes and gave Robinson a comprehensive study. “Of course, my lady, I will try to accommodate your wishes. May I enquire if you require a change of clothes?”

“Thank you. Yes, I would. I don’t plan to go out again today, and we won’t be receiving.”

“I think this would be suitable, if your ladyship agrees.” She held up the pale grey gown she had been examining. Other clothes were draped over chairs and the bed, so much that Faith wondered if they could all belong to her. Before this, she’d had a grand total of
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one ball gown, slightly torn and repaired, one dinner gown, half a dozen day dresses, a pelisse and a winter cloak, two bonnets and three pairs of shoes, as well as a pair of ankle boots. None of the first stare of fashion. Perfectly adequate for her needs. No longer.

A thought crossed her mind. “You must arrange this apartment as you wish, but please leave the old carpet bag where it is. It’s a kind of charm for me.”

Turvey bowed her head. “I will remember, my lady. If you desire to change...?”

“You have half an hour,” Faith said, deciding to treat this as a test to see if Turvey could produce results as impressive as she wanted. Her own dress was unspectacular, but neat as a pin. She wore her hair dressed close to her head in a severe style that only emphasised the sharp angularity of her face. Nothing gave Faith confidence that she would turn her into the great lady she needed to be.

Twenty-five minutes proved enough time for her to change her mind. At the end of that period, Faith had become what she and Robinson had striven for. Seemingly effortlessly, Turvey took her new mistress and fashioned a countess. First her hair, which she trimmed a little, adding more shape to the mass of curls that adorned Faith’s head. The snips gave her a neater fashion, more groomed. Just a couple of clips of the scissors. Then, without using the curling iron, but with a few dabs of oil, she tamed the curls, made the frizz disappear.

Turvey stripped Faith, helped her into a fresh shift and tutted over her stays. “We should order you several new pairs,” she said, “If my lady permits, when we have more time I will take your measurements. Then we will know what we have to work with.”

Faith nodded. “Call me ma’am in private. I have no desire to be addressed like a public meeting.”

As she’d guessed, Turvey appreciated the familiarity Faith granted her. “Thank you, ma’am. When are you planning to go into
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half-mourning in public?”

“After Easter. We have a ball planned. My husband was only a distant relative of the last earl so we feel we might appear ostentatious to appear in full mourning after that time. But we should show respect for our predecessors.”

“An excellent compromise,” Turvey said, “If you will permit me to give an opinion?”

“I depend on it,” Faith said. Robinson helped her step into the gown she’d chosen and Turvey drew it over her shoulders and fastened it for her. This gown buttoned down the front with twenty tiny pearls, slightly off-white in colour, complimenting the grey of the gown perfectly.

“I believe grey suits you better than deep black,” Turvey said, stepping back to assess the effect. “We can make half-mourning most becoming. Cerisot is a good designer.”

“You know her?”

Turvey didn’t not curl her lip but Faith guessed she came close.

“I have worked with her before. I believe her the best available at the moment.”

“You must advise me on how many garments I need and what quality. I won’t come out of mourning until later in the year.” If she was still here, she added mentally.

“Naturally, ma’am, but we can plan for that. A splash of colour once you are allowed to dress that way. A rich ruby or a deep emerald. Bolder colours would work with your complexion. It is fortunate you are not forced into the pastels that young girls are encouraged to favour.”