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MARCH, 1816
“My dear, please do stop complaining. You’ve been pricked by a dressmaker’s pins before, and it’s not that painful.” Lady Craethorne looked up from her lap where dozens of samples of muslin, silk, and light taffeta lay, all in delicate pastel shades and thus suitable for afternoon and evening dresses for proper young ladies.
“Yes, indeed, I’ve been stuck with pins before...ouch!” She frowned at the greying head of the middle-aged seamstress, who proceeded to position a long satin ribbon above Marisa’s slim waist to create a draped Grecian style. “But never so many in so short a time.”
“Does this arrangement please, milady?” the seamstress inquired.
Lady Craethorne glanced at the style. “Why, yes, Beatrice, you’re right. That is a most becoming colour and should suit infinitely well for a walking dress. Finish that one up, too.”
“Very good, milady.”
“Mama, can we stop now?” Marisa pleaded. “I wish to ride this morning, as it’s the first truly fine day we’ve had in months. I long ago promised to visit Mr. Higgins.”
“Well, yes, I suppose so, my dear. Perhaps, Beatrice, we might schedule another appointment for early next week?”
“O’course, milady.” Beatrice nodded and began to gather up the bolts of fabric that cluttered the room. Gertie, the girl who served as lady’s maid to both Marisa and her mother, helped the seamstress.
“My husband goes into Dorchester tomorrow on business, daughter.” Lady Craethorne didn’t look up as she continued to sort through the fabric swatches. “I thought we should accompany him and select some articles in Mrs. Everley’s shop. You will need three—no, perhaps four more pairs of gloves for evening.”
“Indeed, Mama. She always has such beautiful things.”
“I thought you might enjoy doing so. We have not been into town together since before Christmas. I do not know what you have been doing to keep so busy, but you positively are never around when I feel in the mood to go.”
“I have been improving myself.” Marisa stepped down from the fitting stool. Despite the sun outside, she was grateful for the warm fire that crackled in the hearth of her bedroom to dispel the lingering winter’s chill.
“Improving yourself?” Lady Craethorne smiled.
“Oh, yes, in many ways,” Marisa said, as Gertie helped her with the buttons of her dark-green wool riding habit. “I’ve studied Homer, Sophocles, and Shakespeare as well as books on etiquette and proper deportment. And I’ve devoted time every day to my music practice, as well, since we agreed that I should go to London.”
“Indeed? So that is the reason that I always find you in the library every time I look around. And your teachers once complained that you had no fascination with the pianoforte.”
“Well, I have an interest in it now and in anything else that will help me to capture the attention of the entire ton.”
“My dear, you’ve never cared for the ways in which young ladies might attract the attentions of young men. What in the world has made you change your mind?”
Marisa stalled for a moment and busied with straightening the piping of her jacket. Her mother could not suspect her preparations were just to make Will jealous.
“I’ve simply taken your advice, Mama, and faced the realities of life. I’ve come to know that I have to work for what I really want. If that means learning to play the piano or to dance the waltz or to appear fascinated by some dull gentleman’s conversation, then I’ll endeavour to master such skills. Nothing matters so much to me at this moment as what sort of impression I’ll make when the Season begins.”
Her mother rose and gathered her in her arms as if she were a child once again. “Oh, my pet, you cannot begin to know how overjoyed I am to hear you speak in such a level-headed manner. I never believed you would come to see things as I do, but I know now that you have. Isn’t it wonderful to know precisely what one should do and how to go about doing it?”
Marisa nodded in agreement, certain of what she wanted—marriage to Will and nothing less a lifetime spent with him—and she was convinced her plan to achieve those goals was a sound one. If her mother believed she had other motives in mind, then that would serve her purposes even better.
Later, pulling on her riding gloves, she pictured again the scene when Will saw her for the first time in London. She would be wearing a low-cut gown of deep forest green that complimented her eyes, and her hair would be styled in the latest fashion. The tiny jewels sewn onto her dress and pinned in her curls would reflect the candlelight from the chandeliers as she whirled about the dance floor to the admiring looks of the most elegant gentlemen in London. The attentions paid to her by other young men would not escape his notice.
Certain of success, she set out for the stables a few moments later with a smile of assurance on her lips, and carrying two packages wrapped in brown paper. She’d sent word ahead that she planned to ride that morning, so found Venilia saddled and waiting for her. She went directly to the mare and took the reins from Davy, the young groom, who then turned to finish readying the horse that he would ride alongside her.
“How are you, Veni? How are you, my girl?” She laid her packages aside on a hay bale and spoke to the animal, stroking her graceful neck and gazing into her intelligent brown eyes. The mare nickered in response, one hoof pawing the packed earth. “I agree. It has been ages since we’ve gone out—far too long, indeed. And I fear that today’s ride won’t be as leisurely as either you or I would like, for I am expected back at the Manor by lunchtime. So, let us make the most of it, I say!”
She led Venilia out of the stables. “Carry those packages for me, Davy,” she said as he helped her into the saddle. “And do be careful with them. I made a promise in the autumn, and today is the day I mean to keep it.”
Marisa led the way as they rode to the cottage of one of the estate’s dozen tenants, an elderly man named Higgins who’d worked Craethorne land for near half a century. A widower, he had just his granddaughter now, a spirited girl of fifteen named Betsy, to cook and care for him.
Even though Higgins was nearing the advanced age of seventy, Marisa and the groom found him outside, clearing the remnants of last year’s garden away and turning the soil for spring planting. He stopped his work when he glanced up, looking surprised that Miss Marisa of the Manor had come to call. The groom dismounted and held Venilia’s reins as he helped Marisa to the ground.
“Aye, ’tis a fine day, Miss,” the old farmer called out, and doffed his tattered hat in respect. He brushed the dirt off his hands and shuffled forward to greet her, shooing chickens out of the way.
“Indeed, it is that, Mr. Higgins.” Marisa left the larger package with the groom for safekeeping, but took the oddly shaped one from him.
Betsy came out of the cottage at that moment, wiping her hands on her apron. When she saw who their visitor was, she bobbed a quick, awkward curtsey.
“I’ve come to inquire after your health,” Marisa continued. “We heard at the Manor that Dr. Smithson was here last week. Neither you nor Betsy were ill, I hope?”
Before Mr. Higgins could reply, Betsy said, “That’s right, miss, and thank ye for your concern, but ’twas nuthin’ of consequence. A bit o’ a cough, my grandpa ’ad, ’twas all, and a slight wheezin’ what went with it. The physician gave me a potion t’ add t’ his tea and it did the trick, a’right. He’s as good as new now, as you can see.”
“Well, it gladdens me to hear that—” Marisa smiled “—for I would not enjoy breakfast half so much if it didn’t include a poached egg from one of your fine hens. And it occurred to me the last time I was in Dorchester that a man with such fine hens deserved something else fine to go along with them.”
She handed the oddly shaped package to Higgins, but he only stared at it.
“Go on, Mr. Higgins. Please open it.”
“Y-yes, o’course, miss.” He tugged the string off and folded back the paper to reveal a hat similar to the one he still held, but this one was whole and new with a wide brim all around.
“Look, Grandpa,” Betsy said, “’tis so much better’n than the one you have. This ’un’ll actually keep the sun out o’ your eyes, I reckon.”
“Hush now, child.” Mr. Higgins looked at Marisa in confusion. “Thank ye kindly, miss, but I don’t understan’. May I ask why you would be bringin’ me such as this?”
Marisa’s throat tightened but she squared her shoulders, determined not to betray her emotions. “In a few weeks, I must travel to London, Mr. Higgins, and before I take my leave, I mean to visit every farm on the estate. When one departs the only home that one can remember...” She faltered a bit, then drew a deep breath and pressed on. “Let me just say that I have no idea how my circumstances may alter in the coming months, but I could never forgive myself if I went away without telling everyone a proper goodbye.”
The old farmer nodded, his weather-worn face creasing in a gentle smile. “O’course, miss, ’tis clear enough to me now. And I thank ye much for thinkin’ of me.”
“And now, Betsy.” Marisa took the second package from Davy. “I have not forgotten that when I first met you last year, I promised to look for several of the afternoon dresses I wore when I was about your age. I’m glad to see that you havn’t yet grown too tall for them.”
Marisa handed the bundle to the girl, who took it with a wide-eyed look of pure delight. “I ain’t never had such finery, miss.” She smoothed the plain brown wrapping paper with the tips of her work-roughened fingers.
“Well, if I were you, I would at least see how they look on me before saying that. They were some of my favourites from a few years ago, so I fear they are not the latest fashion.”
“Oh, but ain’t the latest fashion French, miss?” Betsy wrinkled her nose in obvious disgust. “I’d be wantin’ nuthin’ that reminded me of those slimy frogs.”
“Well said.” Marisa laughed. “Then the dresses are yours to keep. Perhaps they’ll help you catch the eye of a good and handsome young man the next time you go into town for market day.”
* * * *
VENILIA LOVED TO RUN, so Marisa held tight to the horse’s mane and gave her a looser rein. After leaving the Higgins farmhouse, she and the groom headed for the fields on the west edge of the estate, next to the livestock grazing commons shared with the Wycliffe farms.
Enjoying the feel of the sun on her face and the stinging freshness of the crisp, late morning breeze, Marisa pulled Veni back with reluctance, slowing her to a walk. She should start back toward the manor, but she could not bear the thought of being shut away indoors again so soon. Would she even be able to ride during her months in town?
The sound of another horse caused her to pull Veni to a stop and turn to see who the rider might be. Since she knew Lyvia didn’t ride, could Will have also come out that morning?
She was not disappointed, for indeed, it was his magnificent black stallion, Neptune, which galloped her way.
Her heart raced at the sight of the young man she loved. Even at some distance, she could easily make out his tall, lean figure, with his broad shoulders and curling dark hair. She longed for the day when he would pull her close and hoped that his kisses would somehow ease that warm, yet not at all unpleasant, ache she felt deep within whenever he was near.
He’d been away in London and she’d missed him. She hadn’t seen him since Christmas services at the local parish church and it had been weeks before that when they’d actually talked. Even those moments had been short and always in the company of others, restricted to discussions of the weather, a book they’d both read, and the very horses they rode that day.
Drawing nearer, he reined Neptune in with a quick and practised move. The horse obeyed at once, prancing to a stop just a few feet away from Marisa and her dappled grey. Will’s piercing gaze met and held hers, and the edges of his mouth turned upward in that terribly disconcerting hint of a smile.