Leslie LaFoy (22 page)

“Are you all right, Lady Claire?”

“Yes,” she muttered, carefully putting her weight back on both feet. “Damn skirts. Always in the way, always requiring one hand to manage them when you need two to properly complete a task. I positively loathe them.”

“Well, bein' as the only other choice ye got is go buck naked,” Meg lightly admonished, “I'm thinkin' that ye'd best be about acceptin' the trouble of 'em.”

Claire considered the chair, her anger and frustration rising. Meg was wrong; skirts and nudity weren't the only choices. And it was ridiculous to handicap yourself when it wasn't necessary. “While I would be the first to admit that some situations necessitate acceptance,” she said tightly, heading toward the door, “I'm of the opinion that others are best handled with a well-considered adaptation. I'll be back in a few minutes. Leave the curtains for me.”

“Ye aren't a goin' to cut yer skirts off short, are ye?”

“And ruin a perfectly good dress and petticoat?” Claire answered without looking back. “Hardly.”

“ 'Tis hardly a good skirt,” Meg countered, laughing. “What with the big burn ye have in the back of it.”

True, Claire silently conceded as she entered her own room and began to work at her laces. But it still remained the only dress she really had. At Devon's request, his mother and Elsbeth had surrendered some of their gowns for her use—Henrietta quite happily and Elsbeth most grudgingly—but even the simplest of them was of exceptionally fine fabric, had exceedingly low necklines, and required huge panniers to keep the hems from pooling around her feet. Working in them would have been absolutely impossible, and so she'd hung them in the wardrobe until she could find the necessary time and patience to alter them to a more modest and
serviceable style. Which certainly wasn't going to be today, she knew. Tomorrow didn't hold much promise, either.

Stripping out of her dress, Claire smiled ruefully. Given the circumstances, she was probably going to have to meet the Lee brothers wearing one of the borrowed dresses as it was—panniers, neckline, and all. The only consolation in the prospect was the fact that neither Henrietta nor Elsbeth had offered her one of their wigs to complete the outrageous ensemble.

She tossed her dress on the end of her bed, crossed to the armoire, and removed her breeches, simple linen shirt, and jackboots from the lower drawer. She considered her bindings, but quickly decided against them. There wasn't any reason to flatten her breasts. She wasn't trying to pass for a man today; she was just attempting to move around as safely and efficiently as males did.

And it felt good, she admitted as she finished dressing and pulled on her boots. Men's clothing was so much lighter than women's. And not at all constricting. You could breathe fully and move so freely. And with boots you didn't have to worry about twisting your ankle or falling off your heels. It was easy to understand why women tottered and men strode. Why women stayed home and men went out to conquer the world.

Claire smiled as she went down the hall toward the rooms set aside for guests. She wasn't all that interested in conquering the world, but the possibility of setting Rosewind to rights had some appeal. And now that she was comfortably dressed, the battle somehow didn't seem nearly as daunting as it had just minutes ago. It was amazing, she thought not for the first time, what a good pair of breeches could do for a person's confidence and optimism.

“Oh, sweet Joseph an' Mary.”

Claire paused just inside the room and turned in a
slow circle to allow the wide-eyed Meg to fully appreciate her attire. “Simple and practical,” she offered. “And watch this,” she added excitedly as she strode over to the chair. She bounded up onto the seat, hopped down to the floor, and then bounded back up. She grinned at the still-stunned Irishwoman. “Impressive, isn't it?”

“An' what if someone sees ye dressed like that?” Meg whispered, glancing toward the door. “ 'Tisn't natural, Lady Claire.”

“And being unable to move without fear of tripping, falling, and injuring yourself is?” Claire asked, her hands fisted on her hips. “Why should we be denied the freedom men are allowed in moving about?”

“Where did ye come by 'em? Be they Mr. Devon's?”

“They're mine, actually,” she replied, turning on the chair and setting about taking down the curtains. “I traveled in the conduct of my uncle's business. And he didn't see fit to provide me with a companion or a chap-erone to do so. On the first sojourn in his behalf, I learned the perils of a woman traversing the world alone. Before I left London the next time, I'd been to see an understanding seamstress.”

“An' does Mr. Devon know about yer breeches?”

She tossed the curtains atop the linens Meg had piled on the floor and then jumped down from the chair, saying, “As a point of fact, yes, he does.”

“An' doesn't he mind ye wearin' 'em?”

“He minds very much, actually,” she admitted while carrying the chair to the other window. Climbing up on it, she went on, “But I refuse to surrender common sense and mobility simply for the sake of his sense of propriety.”

“Won't he be angry if'n he comes back an' finds ye runnin' 'bout the house dressed like ye are?”

“More than likely,” she conceded, pulling the curtains off the wooden rods. “But it seems to me that his most pressing concern should be whether or not his
home is ready for guests. Not what his wife wears while she does the necessary work. I intend to point that out to him should he even dare to bluster.”

Meg gave her a doubtful look. Claire jumped off the chair with a grin on her face and the curtains in her arms.

“Lady Cl—”

Knowing the voice, Claire cringed and turned toward the door. It was indeed Mother Rivard who stood there, her gaze fixed on Claire's legs, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

“Merciful saints preserve us,” Meg whispered.

“Oh,” Henrietta gasped. She feebly fanned her hands in the vicinity of her face and neck. “Oh, oh.”

Claire ignored the I-warned-ye look Meg shot at her and said, “Close your eyes, Mother Rivard. Take a slow breath.”

“Oh, dear.” She swayed on her feet as the color drained from her face. Then, in a warning Claire had already come to recognize, she pressed the back of her hand against her brow and swayed.

“Take these,” Claire instructed, shoving the draperies into Meg's hands. She strode across the room and, unencumbered by a skirt, managed to catch the fainting woman much more adroitly than she had her first night in the house. Shifting her hold on Mother Rivard's limp form so that she held her firmly under the arms, Claire sighed and gave the wide-eyed Meg a weak smile. “This is becoming something of a habit, you know. If we loosen her laces, she'll be all right.”

Meg nodded, but didn't move to help. Thinking that an attempt to accomplish the task on the wood floor of the room would be too hard on the poor woman, Claire backed out of the doorway and into the carpeted hall, dragging Mother Rivard along with only the heels of her shoes touching the floor. They slipped onto the carpet,
instantly raising clouds of dust and plowing a set of narrow, wavy tracks in the pile.

The elaborate wig began to slip to the side, and Claire twisted her hip in an effort to hold it in place, to preserve what she could of the poor woman's dignity. The top-heavy arrangement tumbled off despite the effort, hitting the carpet amidst a cloud of hair powder and household dust. Mother Rivard stirred at its loss, bringing both hands up to cover the flattened silver strands of her natural hair. The movement instantly compromised Claire's grip on her.

Afraid of dropping the elderly woman, Claire desperately tried to shift her hold. “Please don't—” was all she managed to get out before a bellow reverberated through the confines of the hall. Claire started and Mother Rivard slipped another degree in her hands as Elsbeth stormed up the last of the stairs like a dark avenging angel.

“Breeches? Are you wearing men's breeches?”

“Put compassion before outrage,” she retorted, feeling Henrietta slipping further from her grasp. “And help me before I drop her.”

Elsbeth stopped in her tracks and glowered. Henrietta stirred again, making a feeble effort to get her feet under herself. Her leverage on the woman precarious, Claire couldn't help her beyond hanging on and offering soft words of encouragement.

“Hold there, Lady Claire. I'm comin'.”

“Bless you, Meg,” she whispered as the woman reached her side and slipped both arms under Henrietta's back. Together, they tilted the older woman upright and onto her feet. She swayed a bit and then found her own balance. Still concerned for her, Claire lightly wrapped her arm around the woman's waist as Meg eased away and went to retrieve the wig.

“I have never in my life seen anything so outrageous!”

Elsbeth declared with an offended huff. “A woman all but baring her legs for anyone to see! Scandalous. Absolutely scandalous!”

“Let's get you to your room, Mother Rivard,” Claire said gently, easing the woman around and facing her in that direction. “We'll loosen your laces and then you can lie down and rest for a bit.”

“ 'Tis apologizing I am for takin' so long to help ye, Lady Claire,” Meg said softly as she took up a position on the other side of Devon's mother. “Me brains were not workin' right for a sad minute or two.”

“It's all right, Meg. You recovered yourself just in time. Thank you.”

Elsbeth advanced another step, her hands fisted on her cinched and panniered waist. “And what would the world be like if everyone wore the clothes of the other sex, I ask you? What if men went out and about in gowns?”

“ 'Tis certain they'd not be marchin' off to wars as often an' as boldly as they do,” Meg muttered under her breath. “ 'Twould be near impossible to be swingin' a sword while holdin' yer hems up.”

Claire grinned at the image Meg had painted as together they guided Henrietta through the open doorway of her room and toward her bed. They'd barely gotten her seated on the edge when Elsbeth stomped into the room, her face flushed and her ebony eyes glittering.

“You… you…”

Trusting Meg to keep a steadying hand on Henrietta's shoulder, Claire turned to face the other woman, arching a brow and waiting for her to finish her diatribe. Elsbeth closed her mouth with an audible snap.

“Would you be,” Claire asked coolly, breaking the taut silence, “by any chance, however remote, about to make a positive contribution to the situation? Or would you prefer to stand there and glare at me while I loosen your sister's laces and make her comfortable?”

“You're an abomination,” Elsbeth declared, her gaze raking Claire from head to toe. “An embarrassment to all womankind. An affront to the very ideas of femininity, gentility, and grace.”

“Undoubtedly,” Claire admitted wryly. “But I don't faint when I take a deep breath. And I can work at a pace that doesn't require the driving of stakes to determine forward progress.”

Elsbeth's chin came up so fast her wig wobbled. She righted it with both hands and a hard yank, then marched toward the bed, waving Meg aside and snapping, “I'm going to tell Devon about this the instant he returns.”

“I had assumed you would,” Claire retorted dryly, moving toward the door. “Now if you'll excuse Meg and me, we have work to do.”

Meg came out into the hall practically on her heels. “Maybe ye should go an' put yer skirts back on,” she suggested in a fearful whisper. “Ye don't want to be makin' Mr. Devon angry. Or killin' his mother.”

“Meg, look around you,” Claire said, throwing her arms out in a gesture that encompassed the whole house. “Look at all that has to be done before Wyndom and the Lee brothers get here. I can either bow to propriety, put on my skirts, and hamper myself as I dash about trying to prepare this house for guests. Or I can be practical and sensible, wear my breeches, and give myself a slight advantage in the contest we're waging against time and expectation.”

“ 'Tis a brave woman ye are, Lady Claire. Far braver than me.”

“And isn't it a sad comment on the state of the world,” Claire countered, moving back toward the guest room, “that a woman is considered brave in choosing practicality over convention. I'll carry the things down for washing if you'll see to cleaning the windowpanes.”

He'd been a damn fool to sell Hannah, he thought as he watched her come out the back door of the King's Arms, a small traveling bundle in hand. He should have let his mother and Aunt Elsbeth starve to death rather than sell her.

Hannah never changed, he realized as she approached him with a bright smile. She'd been gray haired since he could remember. Her eyes had always been quick and bright, her back so ramrod straight and her shoulders so square that no one ever seemed aware that she was a tiny little woman. A tiny little woman with a temper and a willingness to speak her mind in plain, blunt words. What decency and honor he possessed he owed to Hannah's determination to give him the guidance his parents hadn't. What would it cost him, he wondered, to buy her back from Mrs. Vobe?

More than he had, he knew. And more than he was going to have for some time to come. The money he'd raised in selling her was long since gone—for taxes, for seed, for payment of only the most pressing of his father's debts. And there were more of those bills yet to be paid, the creditors growing less patient with each passing day. The only consolation to be had in the situation was that the remaining creditors were in England and that he didn't owe any one of them enough to make the trip across the Atlantic worth the amount they'd collect at this end of it. If war came soon enough…

“Mrs. Vobe tells me you're in desperate straits out at Rosewind, Mr. Devon.”

There were many levels to his desperation, but Hannah only knew of one, and he didn't want to trouble her with all the rest of them. He smiled and lent his hand to help her up into the front seat of the phaeton as he replied, “Wyndom's returning from God only knows where and bringing the Lee brothers with him. I truly
appreciate your willingness to come back for a few days, Hannah. I've missed you. How are you doing? Are you happy with Mrs. Vobe? With Moses?”

She waited until he'd come around the front of the carriage and was climbing into the driver's seat before she answered, “I'm fine and so is Moses. He's a good, Christian man. Mrs. Vobe's an easy woman to work for, very sensible and generous.” She paused to study him, her mouth growing smaller with each passing second. Devon braced himself; he knew the signs of a pending inquisition. He'd endured so many of Hannah's over the years that he'd lost count. There was something oddly comforting about the prospect of yet another. He smiled and waited, knowing that she'd get to where she was going in her own time. Hannah always did things her way.