Lace for Milady (2 page)

She sold me the place furnished and fully equipped. Naturally I was familiar with the state and quality of the furnishings by this time. I was not fooled into thinking that extremely ugly old tables of plain deal were the work of Kent or anything of the sort. The stuff was old and serviceable, not beautiful. Draperies and carpets would all have to go, in degrees, but I looked forward to these changes. I could afford them and meant to do the place up in fine style. I did not go to the cellars, and accepted her word that there
were
good wine cellars, but in fact there were exactly twelve bottles of wine there when I finally got around to examining it. She had not actually said there was anything
in
the cellars, though the term “a good wine cellar” does not generally refer to architecture. My grounds kept shrinking by the day, till in the end I barely had an acre of garden fore and aft to call my own. As you may imagine, battles on all these points were waged, but between battles Lady Inglewood (and sometimes Aunt Ethelberta) helped us in various ways, so that a sort of superficial peace reigned between us. We visited back and forth, and in her mind the wish was still alive that George might marry my fortune. He continued to call regularly. Even when his mother and I were completely at odds, George came.

Slack, my companion, has just read my account thus far, and though she did not say so, I see she is miffed that she has not entered the pages. It is an unaccountable oversight on my part. Naturally I did not set up house without a suitable companion to lend me countenance. Indeed, she is more than a companion. She has been my faithful friend forever; all through my childhood in Wiltshire she was my nanny, governess, abigail. She was some connection of Papa’s and came to his home when I was born to lend a hand. She never left it, and I trust she will never leave me. Now, in case her head expands unduly at this description, let me go on to give her a character sketch. She is honest, bossy, overbearing, short-tempered and clever. Slack is twice my own age. She has black hair and one black eyebrow that runs across her forehead like a narrow velvet ribbon. Her eyes are grey and as sharp as a lynx’s, her nose is sharp, as is her tongue.

There—she has been back and read it, and is more miffed than ever. She suggests I draw a pen sketch of myself, and points out that what I said of her goes well beyond a character study. I thought I had explained my appearance, but she says not, I only stated I was not a pretty child. I am also not a pretty woman. I am five feet, six inches tall, have an athletic build, brown hair and brown eyes. My teeth are in good repair. I am fastidious about my teeth, not primarily for purposes of vanity, but because I had an abscessed tooth drawn when I was eight, and it is not a procedure I wish to have repeated on my adult teeth.

We went on together with our little domestic ups and downs at the Dower House, Slack and I. I began fixing the place up, beginning with the main saloon, where I installed rose velvet draperies. While in the drapery shop in Pevensey, I also purchased material for two new gowns, to suit my new status as a home-owner and occasional hostess. Having been in mourning and half-mourning for over five years all told, with the deaths of Papa, Mama, and Mr. Higgins, I was naturally eager to get out of it. It was six months since the demise of Mr. Higgins. I bore him considerable gratitude for leaving me his fortune but had small traces of love or even respect for a man foolish enough to drink himself into his grave over the death of a wife of only two years’ duration. At six months I was in half-mourning, with the intention lurking at the back of my mind to put off all remnants of crape entirely.

“Rag-mannered,” Slack told me bluntly when I got home with my gold-striped lutestring and my green Italian silk.

“You might have mentioned it in the shop,” I replied in the same tone.

“And announced to the town your step-father is still warm in his grave? I wished to save at least a semblance of decency, since it seems we are to
live
here.” Slack was not yet completely resigned to our permanent remove to Sussex.

“Very clever. I doubt anyone here knows a thing about me but that I am an heiress. Lady Inglewood would not have told anyone I am in mourning for it was, and is, her intention to see me a bride within a month. I am mighty tired of decking myself out like a carrion crow, Slack, and mean to get into some colours before I am too old.”

Any reference to age is greeted with a sniff by Slack. She had passed the half century on her last birthday. Streaks of grey begin to lighten her black hair, but I hold the unspoken suspicion that as with many spinsters, a ray of hope shines yet that she will meet and marry some dashing Prince Charming. It is foolish in the extreme, of course. At twenty-two I put aside all such thoughts and would have set on my caps except that they are a nuisance. Women are already so encumbered with camisoles and petticoats that any additional item of clothing is to be eschewed.

I paid no heed to Slack’s repeated remonstrances regarding the yellow lutestring and green silk but purchased the latest copy of
La Belle Assemblée
in town and selected two suitable patterns. Suitable to
me,
that is; Slack did not approve. She suggested that as it was obviously my intention to set up as the village flirt, I ought to hire a fashionable modiste to cut my gowns for me, and added sundry ill-natured hints regarding decolletage and making sure the skirt hugged the hips tightly, and suggested vulgar coquelicot ribbons for the green silk. So suitable for
Christmas,
she said.

“I hope you pass swiftly through the delicate age you are at, Slack,” I told her, “for I find your conversation recently disagreeable in the extreme.”

The yellow lutestring was cut high at the neck, as became one of my years, with a long sleeve and a full skirt that allowed a good walking pace. The green silk would have been similarly styled had Slack not enraged me with her ceaseless jibes. In retaliation, I had it cut low enough to expose more of my chest than had been formerly shown to the world, and did take in the waist and hips sufficiently to give an indication of my figure. In fact, when I stood before my mirror, I doubted I would have the nerve to appear in public in the outfit, and cursed Slack’s humour and my temper that had caused me to ruin a guinea’s worth of good material. It was quite dashing, but it was not
me.

Lady Inglewood raised her brows when I first called in the yellow striped, but as it caused George to evince more interest than formerly in me, she did not object verbally.

I enjoyed those first few weeks at the Dower House. There was sufficient novelty in coming to a new place and making new friends, trimming up my home to a more stylish appearance and generally getting the lay of the land to keep me entertained. I had my walks along the beach that still amused me, and I had my carriage to drive me to town. I felt life could offer little more. But as August drew to a close and September came upon us, I began to perceive that the keening winds of winter would make my walks along the sea uncomfortable. It was then I took the decision to buy myself a mount. I had procured before coming to Sussex the team to pull my carriage, and had a small stable set up, so why not add a hack to it? I had always wanted to ride. My first attempt along this line led to a new acquaintance and several other items of interest, so I shall make it a new chapter.

Slack is sitting across the room rattling the newspaper impatiently, which means she wants her tea and my company. Truth to tell, I find this writing business tedious enough that I could do with a cup of tea myself. I shall resume the chronicle tomorrow.

Chapter Two

When I read a book, I like to have an idea how my characters look. Not that I adhere slavishly to the author’s description—I usually give the hero black hair, whatever his creator decrees, and the heroine blond, but still one likes to have some general notion, and as I have mentioned Lady Ing, as Slack and I took to calling my aunt, several times, I shall essay my hand at a portrait. She is short but appears tall. I don’t know how she achieves it, a throwing back of her shoulders and tilting her chin up perhaps cause the eyes to travel upward. She has a truly hideous, brindled shade of hair, brownish-red turning to grey, that she wears in a complicated arrangement of loops and swirls. With this awful mop she chooses purple and bile green gowns—one colour at a time, that is, not a mixture. She has close-set dark eyes and a sharp nose not unlike Slack’s. Her voice is both nasal and strident, the unloveliest part of the woman. She walks with short, quick steps, jerky, unbecoming, and is not at all like my mama. All this unattractive appearance is forgotten when she gets atop her mount. As I have mentioned, she is an accomplished horsewoman, an accomplishment I admire but do not envy, as certain people have hinted. Having few close friends as yet, I approached my aunt on the subject of buying a mount. I felt the duty would devolve on George, and was willing to accept this.

She surprised me, as she usually managed to do. “I’ll sell you Juliette,” she said at once. Juliette was her own mount, a high-bred mare, really very handsome, indeed, a bay. I had often seen the two of them going across the park or down the road, and when I thought of riding, I thought of myself riding something akin to Juliette.

“What will you ride yourself?” I asked her.

“I am reaching the age where I must give it up. I have a little twinge of pain in my elbows that is worse after riding.” She looked still young enough and spry enough to ride for ten years, but I did not question her. I presume she knew if her elbows ached.

“Very well. What price do you want for her?”

“One hundred and fifty pounds.”

The speed of her answer caused me to wonder whether she hadn’t been considering this sale for some time. No need to include the negotiations that lowered the price to one hundred. I had decided that was my top price, and once she realized this the thing was as well as done. She got the better part of the fifty pounds out of me by adding an extra charge for saddle, blankets, curry brushes, and other objects, and I believe we were both satisfied with our bargain. As Juliette was no gift horse, I did not hesitate to look her thoroughly in the mouth, legs, chest, and eyes. I did not intend to repeat the dowsing I had taken on my house. I now required a riding habit but could not wait to try my skill, and went to the stable straight away to do so. With the help of a groom, a block of wood, and strong arms, I contrived to get myself hoisted aloft.

I am not chicken-hearted. No foolish fears of mice, heights, the dark or small spaces trouble me, but I confess that when first I looked down to the ground, I felt a quiver of apprehension. I grabbed the reins awkwardly, and they seemed but a poor means of holding myself on to the animal’s back. To ensure my seat, I put one hand in Juliette’s mane. She did not appear to object to this. In fact, I later was told that horses have little feeling in this area, and it is recommended to do this when learning to jump. This felt a little safer, and I let Juliette out of the stable. The ground ceased whirling under me after two slow walks around the garden, and I was emboldened to let her out a little. The groom informed me to give her a little kick with my heel to achieve this. I did so, and she walked faster but not dangerously fast. I have said my land was only two acres, but mean as she was, Lady Ing did not prohibit my walking in her park, and I assumed riding, too, would be permitted. The lands between our two houses were open, a meadow and a garden, whereas I required, or at least desired, the concealing privacy of a few trees for my first ride, so I went off into the spinney that did not belong to her. It belonged to the Duke of Clavering, my neighbour on the other side, and was a part of Belview, his estate. He had a reputation for liking his privacy very well, but as he was known to be in London, I had no fear of discovery.

The ride proceeded satisfactorily. I had no illusion my performance rivalled that of Juliette’s former owner, but I did not fall off, and eventually even let go of her mane and held myself on by the reins alone. I am fairly athletic. I came to enjoy sitting so high in the saddle and was eager to try something more daring than a walk. I kicked Juliette’s side, a little harder than I had intended to, actually, and she broke into a trot. It was somewhat frightening. The smoothness of the walk was all disrupted, and I found myself bumping up and down. I grabbed her mane again, and as I lurched forward to do so, my heel inadvertently touched Juliette’s side once more. The silly animal—really, horses are the most stupid creatures, ten times dumber than a pig—thought I wished to go faster, and did so. I was positively flopping in the saddle now, and becoming quite frightened. Worse was soon to come. The saddle began slipping on me, slipping so that I was virtually hanging off Juliette’s left side. This unnerved the animal, and she took to going faster and faster. I soon realized my best option was to fall off before I got trampled under her hooves, and let go, rolling in the damp earth of the spinney. I did not break any bones, fortunately, but I wrenched my left knee rather badly. It was my pride that was the more hurt, and I was thankful I had taken my first lesson and inevitable tumble in the privacy of the spinney.

It soon dawned on me that my disgrace would not be kept to myself. Juliette, the perverse animal, did not stop. She kept on going, and I had a sinking sensation that where she would go eventually was back to her stall at Inglewood. I could hear her go forward, galloping now. I was very relieved I had had the presence of mind to get off before she took into that wicked gallop. The hooves were thundering in the distance, then a shout rang out.

“Ho, Julie—Whoa, Julie”—something of the sort. It was a man's voice. It seemed the Duke of Clavering’s game warden was in the spinney, and I was glad he would retrieve the animal for me before it bolted back to its former owner. The hooves fell silent and some indistinct words were said to Juliette, who whinnied playfully in reply. “Here! Bring her here!” I shouted, and tried to arise. My knee gave a sharp stab of pain, and I sank to the ground again. I was embarrassed to be found crouching there, but the man was only a game warden after all. In roughly two minutes he had followed the path and found me. He looked no better than a game warden should look. A large, brawny man outfitted in an indifferent blue jacket and buckskins. His hair was black and his face swarthy, the result of his outdoors occupation, I assumed. The eyes, too, were dark. The man might have been a gypsy.