Sixteen
Lady Cathgar’s barouche was supreme. From its blinding purple exterior—Tessie privately thought it wonderful—to the soft squabs of pinks, lilacs, and, yes, alas, crimson—Tessie thought she was in heaven. There were foot warmers at every place, and the chaise was so well sprung, there were none of the nasty jostlings that she had become quite accustomed to. The barouche was fitted with elegant mother-of-pearl drawers containing everything from sticking plasters to elixirs of all descriptions, a feathered muff, a jewelry case, and veritable feast of bonbons, Lady Cathgar’s passion.
The countess selected for herself a sugarplum, recommended the candied pears to Tessie, then sank back gracefully into her seat. The carriage driver, seated up front, could be heard humming a gay tune, the sense of which, Lady Cathgar informed Tessie, though it was unclear how she knew, was licentious. Tessie grinned, for she suspected that the countess, though terribly regal, was also highly improper.
A kindred spirit. She only hoped, now that it came to the crunch, that she could earn her keep. The gown in which she positively luxuriated was a soft yellow with a crossover bodice, high-necked but soft, to show her swan-like features to advantage. Her sleeves, excessively modish, were tied in three places by lemon ribbons, the same ribbons that adorned her rows and rows of hem flounces. It was hard not to sigh with a deep satisfaction, especially now that her curls were imprisoned in a high poke bonnet of Cumberland straw. Oh, it was heavenly! Tessie tried not to peek at her precious kid slippers, magicked up by Madame Fanchon so as not to disgrace the ensemble with her horrible half boots.
Then there were the silk clocked stockings, finer than she had ever worn at Hampstead, and the ivory fan with its intricate Chinese design. If only Nick could have seen her! Then, of course, it would have been perfect. But she would school herself not to think of Lord Nicholas Cathgar—not now, or ever.
Not so for the vagrant Tallows, who was at this moment cursing Sir Nicholas roundly. He was cursing him for interfering with the Luddite schemes. He was cursing him for delivering the flush hit that he had, and, above all, he was cursing him for employing a carriage driver who tooled his horses at such a spanking rate.
Yes, no one had noticed one solitary apple hawker catching a ride on the small platform behind the barouche. Tallows, unremarked, was hanging on for all he was worth. His good eye—the one not clammed shut from bruising—was covered in the dust from the road. His clothes were splattered in mud as two oncoming chaises had liberally sprayed him with dirt from their wheels. Not a happy man, Tallows, but determined.
The Countess of Cathgar snored loudly. Tessie, wondering not for the first time where she was being taken, stared out at the countryside and thought of home. She gulped a little, for so much had changed since she was the darling of Hampstead Oaks, spoiled rotten by the villagers, forging a delightful—if irreverent—life with her grandfather. That she was an orphan had never particularly bothered her until then. Now, strangely, just as heaven had taken a helping hand, just as she was embarking on the post she wanted most, she felt in dreadful danger of crying. She sniffed instead, and brushed back her tears crossly.
Oh, if only she had not fallen in love with Lord Nicholas Cathgar! If only he were not so daring and spirited and damnably handsome! If only he did not devour her with his eyes and amuse her with his impudent smile. It ruined everything, for she could enjoy nothing without her thoughts creeping to him. Most trying!
She wondered if she would ever see him again and thought it unlikely, especially now that she was to be buried away in the country, sewing her life out. The countess seemed kind enough, but she owed her much. She would have to sew from dawn to dusk at the very least to ever repay her and earn her keep. A gloomy thought. She sniffed again.
“Here. Take my handkerchief.”
An enormous specimen was dangled her way. Tessie would have chuckled were she not so much in the doldrums.
“I thought you were sleeping!”
“I never sleep in a chaise. I have a nervous disposition.”
Tessie thought it wise and diplomatic to smile rather than point out the fact of her ladyship’s snores.
The countess peered at her closely. “Yes, you want to tease me, do you not? I have a horrible son who does the same. Says I snore, impertinent rascal!”
Tessie blew her nose with the proffered handkerchief. It was embroidered all over with little crests in diaphanous blue, strangely delicate for the size of the kerchief and its owner. Also, vaguely, faintly, familiar. Tessie puzzled a little over the circumstance, then gave it up. The carriage was lumbering to a halt.
“Ah, here we are at last. The village of Chiswick. Are you acquainted with this part of the country?”
“No, not at all. Grandfather Hampstead traveled frequently to London but never further than Hampstead Oaks. He always said travel was an appalling waste of time!”
“Do you mean the late Viscount of Hampstead? Of the Wiltshire branch of Hampsteads?”
Tessie nodded.
The countess found her quizzing glass among a pelter of items she deemed essential to travel. “Yes, you have the look of him, though I daresay a lot prettier. I knew at once you were a lady born and bred. Always trust my instincts.” With a satisfied harrumph, the quizzing glass disappeared once more.
Tessie did not say a thing. Now was not, she felt, a good time to mention her disgraced reputation, though the very fact that she had offered herself into service must have spoken volumes. Her color rose slightly, but the countess was still musing, unaware of her discomfort.
“I was acquainted with him in my youth. Older than I, of course. A bruising rider to hounds.”
Tessie smiled. “Indeed. It was one of his passions.”
“Gambling too, if I recall. Never could beat him at a game of whist, though I tried often and often. Lost a ruby pin to him.”
“Was that yours, ma’am? I have it still. On a good night he used to toss all sorts of baubles my way. All quite unsuitable, of course. I wonder he thought I could use them, me not out and never venturing beyond the confines of our gates!”
“How stuffy that sounds! I have traveled all over the length and breadth of England and recommend it most highly. Oh, Italy, too, of course, and the usual places abroad. Very exciting it was before that damned Napoleon spoiled it all. Still, you can have no notion . . . but I ramble on as usual. For the moment, you shall discover the pleasures of Chiswick. There are several antiquities, and a stone church of interest. . . .”
“I doubt I shall have the time.”
Tessie looked wistfully at the little shops, displaying such interesting wares as ribbons and gloves and candle wax. On the street corner there was a boot polisher and a chimney sweep with a scrubby youngster beside him . . . there was a blacksmith, a rag-and-bone shop, a saddler . . . she tried not to peer.
“Nonsense. You shall have plenty of time in the mornings, for I positively detest rising early, and you shall need my opinion before hemming up the ensembles.”
Tessie, her mind at once on her task—which had, up to then, been extremely vague, owing to the countess’s surprising reticence—plucked up the courage to ask a key question. It had chiefly been occupying her thoughts all through the countess’s slumbers.
“How many gowns do you think is required?”
“Oh, hundreds!” The countess airily dismissed the question as Tessie’s heart sank deep into her beautiful kid slippers.
It was not permitted to remain there long, however, for the countess suddenly began pointing animatedly to a forest of oak trees in the far distance. The village of Chiswick—such as Tessie had glimpsed—was already becoming a faint memory. The driver was setting an absolutely spanking pace. Tessie could tell from the clouds of dust arising on either side of the chaise, and from the rate at which Chiswick vanished into the distance. She had the most peculiar feeling that she heard several coughs from behind the chaise, and a muttered oath or two. But her attention was diverted by the countess, her sharp eyes alight with pleasure. “Not much farther now. Those forests border with my estate. Look, they are opening the gates.”
Tessie looked. The gates were made of heavy black iron worked in intricate patterns and attached by hinges to a huge, imposing stone wall. The gatekeeper doffed his cap as the carriage rolled through, then there was a great creaking as the gates shut, once more, behind them. Tessie grew more and more nervous as they drove on, through a singularly long tree-lined avenue, past a topiary garden—the countess pointed this out with pleasure—past several stone monuments and an enormous circular fountain until finally the chaise ground to a halt outside an enormous multiwindowed edifice that Tessie assumed to be the countess’s ancestral home. She could hardly see the rough reddish-brown stone, for it was covered almost entirely by ivy and bramble-berry vines.
The countess waited for the steps to arrive, then dismounted first in a flurry of scarves and traveling blankets. Then it was Tessie’s turn. Next to the house, she felt very small indeed. Especially as the housekeeper stood at the top off the grand steps with three housemaids and a footman in attendance. The countess seemed to think little of the matter, and raised her hands airily to them all, accepting their bows and curtsies as her due.
Presently, the carriage, relieved of its passengers, rumbled on slowly to the stables. There was no sign of any vagrant apple hawker. Tallows, lurking in the shadows of the oak trees, had made very certain of that.
Nicholas,
You may stop scouring London in a black study. Yes, I know you, my son! I have Miss Hampstead safe and secure at the country house. She is busily engaged in styling perfectly marvelous creations, and I won’t have her disturbed for the world. Now, keep away, do, or she will doubtless get into a pelter and make a bolt for it again. Such a pother over nothing! Really, Nicholas, if you had just kissed her properly . . . she weeps when she thinks I don’t notice. You are a positive monster engaging her feelings so . . . but stay away! I shall write when you are to return.
Your loving et cetera,
Stella, Countess of Cathgar
P.S. I am spending an enormous portion of your indecent fortune and am enjoying myself enormously.
The countess sealed her missive with a contented smile and a sinfully wasteful amount of sealing wax. Then, eyes alight with youthful laughter, she ventured off to find her prey.
“My dear, the poplin is coming along marvelously, but I think a few frills around the border might be de rigueur.. . .”
Tessie sighed. This was the tenth time that morning the pattern had changed. She was working with some splendid materials—oh, heavenly materials, scented with lavenders and exotic spices from the East—but her fingers ached despite the useful thimble her ladyship had bestowed upon her.
“Yes, my lady. The lady’s measurements . . . I would not like the flounces to be too long, or the hem too short. . . .”
“No, indeed, though my son is such a rogue, I daresay he would not object in the least. . . .”
Tessie smiled. In spite of her woes, the countess’s humor was infectious.
“Then we shall have to thwart him! I will add two inches for the flounces. Shall your future daughter-in-law be stopping by? It will be helpful to have her at hand for the measurements. . . .”
“No, alas! She is suffering from—” The countess’s agile brain misgave her.
Tessie regarded her curiously.
“Consumption!” she announced with a satisfied smile.
“Consumption! Oh, my dear lady, you must be so concerned!”
“Alas, yes!” The countess drew out another of her voluminous handkerchiefs and sniffed. The sniff sounded curiously like a snort, for Tessie looked stricken and the countess was suffering huge paroxysms of laughter, but Miss Hampstead, pricking her finger yet again, remained in ignorance.
“Ouch!”
“Have a care. Those are wicked needles. Are you certain you can have the gown ready for this evening?”
“I believe so, though the beadwork I shall have to take up to my chamber. . . .”
“A pretty chamber?”
“Ever so! I did not know servants had such pleasant places.”
“You are a very superior servant. Indeed, your bloodlines are equal to my own.”
“But I am ruined and you are not.”
“Possibly . . . have a sugarplum.”
Tessie laughed.
“I shall grow as plump as a partridge! No, I thank you. What shall we do about the measurements, then?”
“Oh, measure the gowns against yourself. I am perfectly certain the young lady is about your size.”
“Truly? I am a little thin for the average. . . .”
“So is she, though I mean to fatten her up!”
Tessie laughed. “She will not thank you for that. But if you are certain about her measurement . . . her height, for instance, is crucial. . . .”
“Oh, exactly your own.” Tessie raised her brows a fraction.
“Are you certain? It seems odd, indeed, though naturally my form is not out of the common way. . . .”
The countess begged to differ, for Tessie, quite frankly, was utterly perfect and a positive marvel relative to some of the young ladies of Chiswick. Even in Bath, more fashionable than the local village, it was impossible to find ladies who were not breathless from lacing that was far too tight. Tessie needed no such help—it was obvious from the undergarments Madame Fanchon had so artfully provided. Also, from the great gulps of air that she frequently took—sometimes from sighing, sometimes from sheer youthful exuberance. No one even remotely laced could be so excessive in their breathing.
The countess lied with practiced aplomb. “Indeed, your form is not out of the ordinary way at all, which is most fortunate for us. Continue, if you please, to use yourself as a model in all things. The finer details we shall attend to closer to the wedding.”
“When shall that be, ma’am?”
“Oh, it all depends. My son is hopelessly rag-mannered. He has to be schooled in the gentler arts before the marriage can take place.”
Tessie regarded the countess curiously. “Indeed! If the lady is consumptive, as you say . . .”
But she got no further. With a great snort into her handkerchief, the countess took her leave, as abominably rag-mannered as her absent son. Bewildered, Miss Hampstead had no option but to carry on stitching.
The house, in the next few weeks, was positively beset with morning callers. Poor Tessie had not a moment to be bored, for she had no sooner finished the seams of an ermine mantle or a satin-trimmed pelisse frogged with lavender braid, when the butler was announcing another guest in stentorian tones.
Tessie always put her needlework away and made to leave the drawing room, where Lady Cathgar insisted she sit “on account of the light”—and, indeed, sunshine did stream into the first-floor room with its rows and rows of French windows, paneled here and there with colored glass—but the countess always stopped her.
“Oh, my dear,” she would say, “you simply must meet Lady Halgrove, or Lady Ashleigh. . . .” The list seemed enormous, and each lady seemed to wish to place yet another order with her, so that Tessie felt quite sunk with the pressure brought to bear upon her shoulders.
Surprisingly, it was the countess who came to her rescue, frowning prodigiously on one particularly handsome lady with sapphire-blue eyes that seemed extraordinarily familiar, when she begged a new spencer of “lead-colored silk, fur trimmed, perhaps . . .”
Tessie smiled wanly, but the countess was outraged.
“Miss Hampstead cannot be expected to sew on the whim of my guests! As it is, she has her hands perfectly full sewing a trousseau for . . . for . . .” She looked about wildly, then brought out her great handkerchief yet again and began coughing so loudly that Tessie felt she might be consumptive. The lady in question, languid, drew forth some sal volatile, much to the countess’s indignation.
“Take that hideous stuff away from me! You would be well served, Delia, if I banished you from the house!”
“Well, you won’t, not before I first become acquainted with your newest houseguest! Do you ride, Miss Hampstead?”
“I do, but it is really not proper, and I have no habit. . . .”
“What nonsense is this?” The lovely lady smiled archly.
Tessie looked to the countess for help but received none, she obviously seeing nothing extraordinary whatsoever in her seamstress dillydallying with the morning callers.
“I am not a houseguest, ma’am, but an employee.”
“Oh, is that all? I shall not tear you away from your precious gowns long, but I do think I shall show you the sights of Chiswick! We have a haunted castle, you know. . . .”
Tessie did not know, but she soon did, for she was being dragged out of the house toward the stables with not the slightest consideration for the fact that her morning dress was far too short for a country ride, and that indeed, as she had protested, she had no suitable riding habit.
“Oh, pshaw!!” had come the merry response, and Tessie had warmed prodigiously to the lady despite the difference in their ages—ten years at the least—and, naturally, their stations in life.
“You shall have Bess. A genuine thoroughbred Arab. A little darling, though a demon if you can’t ride. You did say you could, didn’t you?”
Tessie nodded, her eyes shining, for Bess was magnificent. Better yet than anything the Hampstead Oaks stables had to offer. She would ride, for it might be the last time she ever had the opportunity. Besides, Lady Ashleigh, dressed all in blue velvet and looking very much the thing, seemed to expect her to. Neither lady waited for the requisite groom, both mounting with consummate ease and grins of sheer pleasure that cut straight across the social barriers that might have come between them.
“Race you to the downs!’
And Lady Ashleigh was gone. Tessie, her spirits soaring, flew after her, Bess as responsive to her touch as if they’d ridden together forever. Lady Ashleigh jumped a stream, so Tessie did the same, ignoring the great splashes of mud that ruined her delightful new morning gown of blue organdy cut high at the bodice and flowing in classical lines. The thrill of the chase was upon her, and by the time Lady Ashleigh had negotiated a topiary hedge, Tessie had caught up.
“By God, you are a bruising rider!”
It was hard for Miss Hampstead to look demure, little dimples peeping cheerfully from flushed cheeks.
“I learned when I was little. Not sidesaddle either.”
“You don’t mean . . .”
“Astride? Yes, shameful, isn’t it? Just as well I am no longer a lady. My reputation would not stand the scandal!”
Lady Ashleigh frowned. “Tessie Hampstead, we have not known each other long, but I vow and declare if you talk such fustian again, I will rinse your mouth out!”
“What?” Tessie, not surprisingly, looked astonished.
“Don’t gape, young lady! You know perfectly well you are as much a lady as I. As for your reputation . . .”
“It is in shreds.”
“By becoming a seamstress?”
“Yes. That, and . . .”
“Oh, do tell me! I swear, if you clam up, I shall positively die from curiosity!”
“There is nothing to tell. I have behaved scandalously and must pay the price. It is not so very unusual in our circles. Come, let us find this church. I would rather be haunted by specters than by . . . sad memories.”
“Are they so very sad? None . . . worthy of a fluttering heart or a clandestine smile?”
“You make me sound like a heroine from one of Walpole’s romances!”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Certainly not! Wherever can you have conceived such a notion? I am very plain and ordinary, though I fall into the most fearful scrapes. . . .”
Lady Ashleigh laughed. “Then we are kindred spirits! But come, answer my question. In that dark and gloomy past of yours, is there not some shining knight lurking somewhere? I sense it!”
Tessie laughed. “Perhaps. But I have placed him in the gloomiest corner of my mind and am determined to forget all about him!”
“Why? If I had a knight—and, indeed, my dear Robert, though I love him dearly, is far too prosaic to be termed such—I should not merely pine over him and consign him to the dusty recesses of my mind!”
“You would if it was the best thing for him!”
“Nonsense! For how can any knight care to be treated thus? What good is a knight without a corresponding damsel in distress?”
“Perhaps I am the wrong damsel. Indeed, I am sure of it, for I cause nothing but trouble, and the only reason why the knight is offering for me is out of pigheadedness and pride!”
“Offering for you, is he?” For some reason, Lady Ashleigh brightened considerably on her russet-colored side saddle.
“Yes, but only . . .”
“. . . out of pigheadedness and pride. Sounds about right. Most knights offer for those reasons, for they are too stupid to admit the truths staring at them in the face.”
“Which are?”
“Which are, my dear Tessie—I shall call you that, for I am certain we shall be friends—that they are head over heels in love! Gentlemen just can’t seem to admit to such thoughts. Well, not without a little prodding. The amount of times I had to prod dear Lord Ashleigh you would simply not credit! It is not in their makeup despite the delightful sonnets they make such fools of themselves over.”
“Oh, you mean, like ‘Ode to Tessie’?”
“I suspect so. How does that go?”
Miss Hampstead giggled. “I shan’t tell you, but it contains about five stanzas devoted to the peculiar shade of my hair.”
“Not by your knight? Oh, tell me not!”
Tessie sobered. “No, for I doubt he would write me so much as a line. He thinks I am a child, you see.”
Lady Ashleigh’s gaze became piercing. “Yet he has offered?”
“Only because . . .”
“He is stubborn and proud. You would not love him else, I swear. Beware, Tessie, that you are not tarred with the same brush.”
Lady Ashleigh, possibly at her gentlest and most perceptive, gave Tessie a sweeping stare that again was tinged with that enormous sense of familiarity. Tessie wondered why this should be so, or, indeed, who Lady Ashleigh reminded her of so forcibly.
But she was not permitted to muse long. Bess, champing at the bit, was ready to forge the stream.
Behind her, to the right, she was watched. The man called Tallows had been very patient.