Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (3 page)

Thankfully, Mrs. Coleman had her back to me and therefore didn’t witness my struggle to hold back emotions. She knelt over the grate, raking the ashes.

“I always keep a cake in my shelf,” she continued. “If you like, you are invited to join me for tea in the late afternoons. You may sit in my overstuffed chair and confide all your little secrets to me. I should rather enjoy that.”

I crossed my arms, wondering what she’d do if I actually took up her offer and confided all. I allowed myself a wry smile as I imagined her too shocked to speak.

“You’ll find that Master Isaac doesn’t consider it below his station to come and visit me. I daresay you can trust him to determine what is right and proper, far above any nonsense your school taught you.” Using tongs, she lifted the half-burnt coals from the ash and deposited them into a nearby scuttle.

I frowned, not certain who Master Isaac was, but then recalled Lord Dalry, the gentleman who’d greeted Edward and me the night we arrived.

The dull chimes of a grandfather clock sounded, filling the chamber and reminding me of my mission. I retreated back to the window. The sun had nearly risen, giving the sky a rosy tincture. With dismay, I glanced at Mrs. Coleman as she started the fire, then cast my gaze outdoors. I desired to be alone, yet there was no polite way to dismiss her midtask.

The sunrise was beautiful. Tones of gold highlighted the claret color, making the sky incarnadine. I ached, uncertain what to make of its beauty. How could the most resplendent sunrise of my life simultaneously be the most painful?

Yet as I considered the complex layers of color and light, I better understood Mama’s determination that first morning. She, too, had lost her entire world. She had to fight and remain determined in order to give birth. To thrive after tragedy, one must find and draw from a pool of strength deep within oneself. Mama must have found hers that morning in me.

I gave a deep sigh, resting my head against the window frame. A newborn daughter, however, was more likely to give someone an iron will than a powerful father. Something about that thought surfaced another part of the story, which Mama had mentioned only once. I was perhaps seven or eight. After she’d described my father counting my fingers and toes, she tacked on, “I never saw a grown man weep over his child before, but your father held you against his chest and expressed such raw emotion that Sarah feared he’d drop you in his remorse.”

That year, I had wrinkled my nose. If William had been weeping at the end of a long night, then he was inebriated. Even at that tender age, I could well guess he’d hidden in a pub during Mama’s labor. It also stood to reason that he probably slept at the tavern, woke, and started drinking again. Knowing William’s temperament, I was displeased that Mama and Sarah had allowed him to handle an infant.

But as I stood there, feeling the cold bleed through the window, I suddenly guessed the truth, and tingles spread over my
body. Mama had not been speaking about William, but Lord Pierson.

I held my breath. If my father came to see me on the morning of my birth, then I mattered to him. I raised my gaze, savoring the feeling of hope that surged through me. Perhaps it didn’t matter that our first meeting last month had been horrid, or why I was at Maplecroft pleading for sanctuary. All that counted was what happened next.

“’Tis a grave view, that,” Mrs. Coleman said behind me, nearing me.

I had been so deep in thought, I’d nearly forgotten I wasn’t alone.

She joined me at the window and frowned, glancing toward Eastbourne. “There’s something evil about this, if you ask me. A bad omen, for certain.”

I felt my mouth dry as I turned to look at her.

She pulled the bundle of bedclothes in her arms tighter. “Mark my words: ’twill be the coldest winter yet. Snow in October! I’ve been in this shire for over twenty years, with nary a snowflake before January, much less a storm.”

I released a shaky breath. “You . . . you meant the snow?”

She glanced in my direction. “Whatever else could I have meant?”

Without my permission, my eyes strayed to Eastbourne.

“Humph,” she said, following my gaze, then set aside her linens. With the air of a prim nanny, she surveyed Eastbourne. “Mr. Chance Reginald Macy,” she finally said with distaste. “I take it you’ve followed his dreadful scandal in the paper, then?” She shook her head disapprovingly, the ruffles on her cap bobbing before she stalked to the wardrobe. “Best not let your father hear. He would not approve of your reading such trash. If you ask me, that girl ought to be horsewhipped within an inch of her life. Mind you, I’d like to be the first one who gives her a dressing-down. I can assure you, she’d know her duty when I finished with her.”

Feeling my face grow hot, I turned my back to her. Since my arrival, I’d only glanced at the various newspapers delivered each day, never suspecting that Macy was keeping our scandal alive. I swallowed, realizing that he was still searching for me—or at least pretending to.

The heavy scent of perfume coated the room as she dug through my father’s late wife’s dresses. “As for him, he ought to feel the fool for allowing someone half his age to seduce him. Had he enough self-pride, he would have better sense than to keep adding to the fire, pleading for her return. He’s the same age as your father, you know. Can you imagine your father making such a tomfool of himself over a girl your age? I remember a time when the two of them would ride and hunt together. The year before Mr. Macy left for Eton, he and your father were inseparable.”

“They were?” Surprised by this information, I turned and studied her face. The crow’s-feet that lined her eyes suggested she was only a decade older than Mrs. Windham. She’d have been too young to be a housekeeper back then, which meant she’d have been an upper maid. “What happened?”

She paused and a thoughtful expression crossed her face, as if she were reliving scenes from the past. Then all at once, she tsked. “There’s no sense asking me. I was never given knowledge of the affair. Your father spent that following summer in Bath, and we scarcely saw him. Something happened there that caused the pair to fall out.”

Now this bit of news interested me. Mama’s past was a mysterious maze, of which I’d only learned one or two turns. One of those paths had come from Lady Foxmore. During our first tea, she stated that she’d chaperoned Mama in Bath the summer after Mama’s family perished in a fire. I bit my lip as Mrs. Coleman rifled through dresses. Was it possible it was the same summer that drove a wedge between my father and Mr. Macy?

“Here. This ought to fit.” Mrs. Coleman withdrew a scarlet
brocade gown. “It’s none of my business, mind you, but for your mother’s sake, I intend to give your father a piece of my tongue about the condition of your clothing when you arrived. I won’t argue the good of teaching someone of your rank humility, but to keep her dressed in rag—” She stopped short as if recalling whom she addressed.

I pretended to view the grounds again, wanting to kick myself for showing interest in Mr. Macy. Though my common sense had been a bit woolly from the brandy, I still recalled Mr. Macy’s words:
“More than one of your guardian’s servants is loyal to me. I’ve been intercepting all correspondence involving you since your mother’s death.”

I crossed my arms, willing myself not to panic, either. Thus far nothing had happened.

“What time does my father arrive?” I asked.

“Likely as not, sometime after gloaming, but with him, there’s no telling,” was Mrs. Coleman’s stout reply as she unfolded and refolded petticoats, looking for one that would fit. “I’ll have to hire girls from the village to have things readied on time. It’s a blessing he didn’t surprise us, considering the state of the house.”

Her statement was so curious, my mouth twisted in a queer smile. I’d never seen as much as a speck of dust in the entire estate.

Aware my father could return any minute, I glanced at the clock. After Mrs. Coleman left my chambers, she wasn’t likely to have the time to assist me later. If I wanted to present my best, I needed to hasten.

While Mrs. Coleman shook out the clothing she’d selected, I opened the small china boxes, looking for face powder to hide the crescents beneath my eyes. Scents of oil of tartar and almond rose from various creams, but I found no white powder. In my fumbling, one of the bottles of fragrance spilled, filling the air with rose water.

Mrs. Coleman eyed the spill as she approached, her mouth tightening. “Never mind it; I’ll tend to it as you put these on.”

While Mrs. Coleman pressed a linen towel against the spill, I shed the nightdress and donned petticoats too large for my frame. Shivering, I stepped into the satin gown that felt soaked in cold.

When I finished, Mrs. Coleman smoothed my hair with pomade, parted it down the middle, and completed it with a simple braid.

“With your permission, I’d like to take my leave now,” she said, setting the brush down.

“Oh yes, yes,” I said. “Feel free.”

Her eyebrows rose as though she was surprised by my unorthodox dismissal. Nonetheless, she dipped and left with the laundry bundled against her hip.

Alone, I pulled out the pins from her hairstyle, changed my part and redistributed the pins into a more flattering style, then studied the girl in the looking glass. I heaved a sigh. I looked like a forlorn child in an oversized ruffled dress, and without Nancy, my hair lacked luster.

Even so, I was determined to be the first to greet my father.

Had I known who my father’s guest was, I doubt I should have bothered.

NEWS OF MY FATHER’S arrival was like a spring storm sweeping over a sere landscape, leaving verdant buds in its wake. During his absence, the brumal estate had been entombed in silence, but now it rang with life. Footsteps clattered in corridors, deliveries were made by townsmen, groundskeepers ran past windows, and smoke from the kitchen curled with greater measure into the crisp air. For the first time since Edward’s departure, I finally managed glimpses of the upper maids as they bustled feverishly with pails of water, carpet beaters, and rattling coal scuttles, though they did their best to avoid me, scurrying like frightened hares down the nearest passages.

Eaton’s staff likewise raced about the estate pell-mell, their eyes bright and their cheeks ruddy. Whenever they chanced upon me, instead of hiding, they bowed with such relish anyone would think they enjoyed the impossible task of burnishing an already-calendered house.

Eaton and Mrs. Coleman, too, flew about like color sergeants rallying their troops. They barked orders, inspected chambers,
crawled to see beneath furniture, and measured the distances between footstools and chairs. I watched the fervor through the balustrades in the upper hall, until Mrs. Coleman upbraided a girl for missing a wilted petal in one of the flower arrangements. My stomach tightening, I quietly rose and retreated to my chamber.

There, I spent hours practicing various greetings before the ornate looking glass. I lacked the social graces my counterparts possessed, for Mama was far more concerned with deflecting William’s temper than overseeing my comportment. Nevertheless, I rarely felt my deficiency. It was easy enough to compensate by imitating others.

Yet whom could I imitate?

In my village no young lady of rank graced us with her presence. My only memorable observations of a peered father-and-daughter pair had occurred in the marketplace near Am Meer during my stays with my dearest friend, Elizabeth. A carriage bearing an insignia rumbled between the buildings, causing heads to turn. When the door opened, a dainty, silken foot emerged, followed by a well-dressed young lady and her father. Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow at me, the signature mischievous look that always warned me we were about to get into trouble. Though Mrs. Windham had bid us to hasten our return, as Hannah needed the milled flour, it was a rarity to observe someone arrayed as beautifully as this girl. How could we not remain a little longer?

The pair was mesmerizing, particularly the girl. Sapphire feathers whirled about her face, accenting piles of jetty ringlets. Her dress, a brilliant bone-colored satin, fell behind her in magnificent folds, reminding me of the heavy tail of a peacock. When a group of cottage children, ten or twelve winters old, shyly offered her violets, her father beamed. Yet I noted how the girl’s eyes narrowed and her smile froze with annoyance.

“Who is she?” I asked Elizabeth.

She shook her head, eyeing her in distaste. “Never seen her before. Why do you suppose she’s here?”

Instead of answering, I studied the girl’s miffed expression, which suddenly transformed. Clinging to her father’s arm, she dimpled and tossed her curls as she bounced on her toes, pointing to Anne Goodman’s stall, where a tatted lace parasol hung. “Oh, Papa, look! Can we buy it? Millicent has one similar, but that one is twice as lovely. Oh, please!”

Her father in turn preened his moustache, pretending to debate the purchase that he obviously planned to make.

“Fancy him not seeing through that act,” Elizabeth murmured.

I watched the girl’s rapturous face as the merchant opened the canopy and showed off her handiwork. Elizabeth frowned, and I knew it was because she’d been secretly saving for the item for months. To cheer her, I gave her a teasing jab with my elbow. “You don’t suppose they’re here to court Henry, do you?”