Barbara Metzger (7 page)

What a difference a few hours made in a man’s life! Just the night before, Claibourne had been on this same road, his good horse under him, and not much ahead of him. Now his future looked interesting, at least, if not bright, and he rode a chestnut gelding from Squire’s stable. His honour wouldn’t let him touch a groat of Jacelyn’s money before they were wed, although her father had trustingly and touchingly offered. The earl was not nearly so under the hatches as to be tempted to accept, nor to take Arthur’s guilt-ridden suggestion of a loan for travelling expenses. Squire’s offer, however, was harder to refuse: a tidy sum of money and the use of a mount, in exchange for Baron’s service with the broodmares for the two weeks Claibourne would be gone. The brute would be hell to ride after, but he’d only be eating his head off in a London stable while Claibourne went north to fetch his aunt. Besides, they all had to make some sacrifices for the cause.

If his horse was back there in Cambridgeshire, so were a great many of my lord’s thoughts. Gads, what had he gotten himself into? She was so young and so appealing, so honest in her nature, and so deliciously devious in her methods. She had the innocence of a loving child, yet her kisses were those of a seductive woman. What a conundrum, and what a delight! The high-born debutantes he’d known, admittedly few and those only slightly, had exactly three public facial expressions: smirk when they were being complimented, sneer when they weren’t, and simper when they couldn’t tell which. Each expression used the minimum of effort, as if they feared any movement of their lips might ruin the perfect china-doll look they struggled to achieve. His Jacelyn, though—already he thought of her with the possessive—held her emotions right in the eyes, in her full mouth, in the straight little nose which crinkled adorably. He was certain he’d not seen half the combinations the changeable little creature possessed. He only hoped London didn’t teach her to cloak all her thoughts and feelings with the mask of ennui that Society deemed necessary.

His first chore, though, was to see that Jacelyn got to London. He had the letter to her Aunt Amabel, along with Lord Trevaine’s hints toward obtaining her compliance. Trevaine had told Leigh that his letter appealed to Lady Parkhurst’s strong familial instincts as well as her mercenary ones, the latter fed by the extremely generous sum put aside for incidental expenses beyond Jacelyn’s clothes, servants, horses, and come-out ball. That and the fact of Claibourne and his great-aunt undertaking the day-to-day responsibilities for a debutante ought to convince his flighty, lazy, but generally agreeable sister, confided Trevaine. As for Lord Parkhurst, his seat in the House, his dinner, and a good game of whist were the only things he considered worthwhile, and he disliked having any of them disturbed. Therefore, cautioned Jacelyn’s own loving father, revealing whence she’d derived some of her circuitous logic, Claibourne was to play the trump card as a last resort only. Unwritten in the letter, but to be implied by the earl in person, was the precarious nature of both Trevaine’s health and the proposed betrothal. If the engagement and Trevaine’s heart both failed, the Parkhursts would have the sole responsibility for their impetuous, unconventional, problematic niece. Yes, the threat ought to clinch the invitation.

*

Lady Parkhurst’s letter arrived at Treverly three days later, along with Leigh’s note that he was now en route to Littleton at Stockton-on-Tees in Durham, to convey Lady Parkhurst’s invitation to his own great-aunt. Lord Claibourne saw no difficulties there. He was finally offering
Tante
Simone a sojourn in London near many of her friends, along with the chance of a great-grandbaby to spoil. She had been after him to wed for years now, and a wife whose dowry would help restore the Abbey could only thrill her. Leigh could see no reason to mention any irregularities about the betrothal—or the bride!

*

Miss Trevaine, meanwhile, was finally acting in anything but an unusual manner for a seventeen-year-old girl. She was thinking about her future, clothes, and men.

It took all of one day for Jacelyn to discover the changes Claibourne had made in her life, outwardly, at any rate. At church that Sunday, she was no longer Miss Jacey to the villagers she’d known all her years, nor that wild Trevaine girl to the matrons who had barely given her a nod previously. Now her old friends bowed and tugged their forelocks, and even the gentrywomen graciously bent their heads in her direction, smiling. Of course now she was a few steps down the aisle and two short words away from being a countess, no matter how she’d done it. She, Jacelyn Trevaine, a countess! Even Priscilla Ponsonby and her mother would have to curtsey to her. That was a heady notion for a young girl, so she practiced her best
grande dame
looks, sitting in the Treverly pew between her father and Mrs. Phipps. She even tried raising one eyebrow as she’d seen his lordship do, to such majestic effect, until Mrs. Phipps pinched her arm.

Looking around, she caught Samantha’s wink, across the aisle in Squire’s pew. Her air dreams came back to earth with a painful thump. For there, next to Arthur in his high collar and nipped-in waist, sat Priscilla, in high-waisted primrose muslin, with matching ribbons holding silk roses to her bonnet. Her friend Miss Chadwick wore a sky-blue jaconet gown with an ermine tippet, and a white satin bonnet with blue ruching and a large blue bow tied off to one side of her heart-shaped face. Even Squire’s daughters, dressed alike in pale pink pinafores, were better attired than the countess-to-be.

Jacelyn wore the shapeless navy kerseymere with the white fichu she’d worn to church every Sunday.

That was what Mrs. Phipps thought suitable, and since Mrs. Phipps made most of Jacelyn’s clothes, cleaned them, pressed them, and laid them out for her, Jacey had never given it another thought. Her chipstraw bonnet was nearly new, but the ribbons were tangled, and Jacelyn had been in a hurry, late as usual, so they hung in a bedraggled knot somewhere under her chin. She had also been too late, exercising Pen, on a lead, at her father’s insistence, to change her heavy wool tartan for a paisley shawl, and she’d only pinned it with a tin brooch from the last fair, lopsided besides. Why, she looked more like a ragpicker than an heiress! They’d all laugh at her in London. Worse, they would laugh at Lord Claibourne, with his reputation for beautiful women, being saddled with such a fright. No one would believe for an instant that he was attracted to her. Why should they, when she didn’t?

After the service, when the congregation clustered in the churchyard, Jacelyn impatiently stood by her father, accepting best wishes and ignoring innuendoes as best she could, until Squire’s party came near.

Lady Ponsonby wouldn’t offer her hand to shake, sniffing that “it’s a long way ’twixt St. David’s and Dover,” which Jacelyn took to mean my lady wouldn’t acknowledge her till she had a ring on her finger. Priscilla took her cue from her mother: “Congratulations are in order, I suppose, Miss Trevaine, though I wish you well of your bargain. Heaven knows,
I
wouldn’t have him.”

“Oh,” Jacelyn inquired sweetly, “has he asked you?”

Priscilla flounced off, leaving Miss Chadwick to titter, “I think you are very brave, Miss Trevaine. I couldn’t even think of being alone with such a rake.”

To which Jacelyn replied, “And I, Miss Chadwick, would never think of wearing some poor dead animal around my neck.” It was the little beady glass eyes on the other girl’s fur wrap that did it. Jacelyn excused herself to her father when she finally saw Mrs. Bottwick leaving the vicar’s side.

“Ma’am, could I please ask a favour of you? It’s terribly important, you see, and there’s no one else.”

“Of course, Jacelyn dear. I know you must miss your mother at times like this. I thought Mrs. Phipps would explain to you…”

“Explain? Oh no, Mrs. Bottwick, I know all about that.” At the look of horror on Mrs. Bottwick’s round face, Jacelyn hurriedly added, “The farm animals, you know. This is more important! I…I can’t go to London like such a frump. I’d die. Mrs. Phipps can only make one kind of dress, short sleeves for summer, long sleeves for winter. And if Aunt Amabel has the dressing of me, I’ll end up looking like a…silly debutante.”

“But you are a debutante, Jacelyn. I’m sure your aunt knows what’s best.”

“No, Mrs. Bottwick. She only sees a hobbledehoy little girl she has to hide in ruffles and frills so no one will notice I’m different. And I’m not just a girl in her first Season, I’m nearly engaged, and to a top-of-the-trees Corinthian besides!”

Mrs. Bottwick was beginning to see Jacelyn’s problem, more perhaps than Jacelyn did, and her natural motherly feelings were stirring, but it wasn’t for her to interfere.

“How can I make you see?” Jacelyn wondered, desperate to be understood. Her eye caught Samantha Bottwick, standing next to Arthur. “There. Look at Sam.” She didn’t notice Mrs. Bottwick’s wince, which changed to a proud smile with Jacelyn’s next words: “She’ll always look beautiful, just standing still, no matter what she wears. She’s tall and blonde; she’ll be exquisite in all the pastels and white lace. I’ll get lost in them! A poor little brown dab of a thing!”

“What do you want then, my dear? You cannot dress in red satin like some opera dancer, and you cannot damp your petticoats like Caro Lamb. I won’t hear of it, and I’m sure your aunt won’t either.”

“Is Jacey going to damp her petticoats then, Mama?”

“Samantha!”

“Hello, Sam,” Jacey said, grinning at her friend. “I am trying to convince your mother to help me find some style. I need to cut a dash, as Arthur would say. You know you have
La Belle Assemblée
the same week it’s out in London.”

Samantha looked at her consideringly. “She’s right, Mama. Everyone is going to stare at her anyway, you know. And it’s not like there’s ever been anything exactly ordinary about Jacey either, so maybe she does need a look of her own. Besides, if we don’t go shopping with her, she’s liable to go off to London looking like Cambridgeshire girls make their clothes from horse blankets.”

“Now, Samantha. Jacelyn, if your father gives his permission, we’ll all go into Ryefield. Perhaps I could have my aunt in Kensington send some fabrics. I recall some dark green shot-silk at the Emporium Arcade…”

*

So Jacelyn’s next few weeks, and most of her thoughts, were taken up with clothes. There were trips to Ryefield and even an excursion to Royston, consultations with the
Ladies’ Journal
and Mrs. Bottwick’s aunt. And fitting after fitting. Jacelyn had never stood still for so long in her whole life.

She had an evening gown made of the emerald silk, with gold braid and gold slippers to match, and gold ribbons to thread through her newly styled hair, brushed back smooth except for a few curls at either temple, then piled on her head in twisted coils. Also for evening there was a cream satin embroidered with gold butterflies, and a gold tissue with a lace over-skirt. Her day dresses were of peach and apricot and amber, with simple lines to grace her figure, and only simple trims, nothing fussy to overwhelm her.

This was only the start of her wardrobe. The rest would be selected in London by a much more knowledgeable Jacelyn, but it was all the local seamstresses could accomplish in the time. Amazing how “young miss” would have had to wait for weeks, after being served by the lowest apprentice. Miss Trevaine, after a few words from Mrs. Bottwick, could have her gowns fashioned in days, assured Madame d’Journet (née Nellie Jones) herself, nearly forgetting her French accent in calculating her income from this windfall. With the chance of dressing Squire’s three daughters if she pleased the ladies now, Madame would sew the seams herself, if she had to.

There were two items of disagreement in the new wardrobe. The first was a deep rose velvet gown with a décolletage Mrs. Bottwick thought far too daring. Jacelyn adored it, and Samantha labelled it regal. They compromised with a lace insert, which Jacelyn determined wouldn’t reach London.

There was no compromise on the other outfit Squire’s wife considered in dubious taste. Jacelyn saw the fashion plate in
La Belle Assemblée
and couldn’t rest until she had one made: a riding habit with a scarlet Hussar-style jacket with black buttons, and a black split skirt.

“But, dearest, you cannot mean to ride astride in London!” Mrs. Bottwick was aghast.

“Of course not,” Jacelyn assured her, wondering if she could find a way. “But think about my present habit!”

Jacelyn’s bombazine riding outfit was serviceable, Mrs. Bottwick had to give it that. Otherwise it was a mud-coloured brown that was always dirt-streaked. The girl never seemed to remember to pick up the extra width so the train either dragged behind her or tripped her up. It was remarkable how such a graceful rider looked like such a clumsy waif on the ground. Mrs. Bottwick relented. They even found a tiny scarlet cap to match, with a white feather to curl down the side of Jacelyn’s cheek, highlighting the white lace she’d have at collar and cuffs.

All in all, Jacelyn was satisfied that her clothes were out of the ordinary without being outlandish. If she looked special, maybe, just maybe, Lord Claibourne would think she was special. Mrs. Bottwick, on the other hand, acknowledged that the new styles gave Jacelyn a more dignified, mature air, which should, the good Lord willing, make her act that way!

Luckily for Jacey, the new concern for her clothes took up a lot of time, time she’d otherwise have spent wondering about that other new discovery she’d made: men. Not men as in her father or Squire or Shoop or even Arthur. Men as in Lord Claibourne, as in all she didn’t know about farm animals despite what she’d told Mrs. Bottwick, and all her father’s books didn’t tell her. These wonderings she hugged closely to herself at night, and dreamt of blue eyes and lazy smiles.

*

“But what if his aunt is a dragon, Papa?”

“Then tell Antoine not to overcook the beef,” Lord Trevaine answered wearily, having lost his place in the Suetonius again. “Jacelyn, it’s just a small dinner party for a few of our closest friends, stop fretting so. After three days in a carriage, Madame Aubonier won’t wish anything more. Now go help Mrs. Phipps set the table, and leave me in peace!”