Mark of Distinction (Price of Privilege) (6 page)

The following morning, I sat fragmented as hot water was poured from a copper pitcher into the hip bath. The hurt that had blustered into anger and roared the previous evening had expended itself, leaving behind vast emptiness. I could stir no emotion as clouds of steam rose and mingled with my breath. Despite the fact that I was unaccustomed to bathing in front of
more than one servant, I couldn’t even arouse a sense of modesty. Nothing mattered.

“She’s expected downstairs in the library in less than ten minutes,” Mrs. Coleman shouted into the next room. “Where’s Mary with the rinse water?”

“Shall I go look for her?”

“No. Stay put. I’ll need your help dressing Miss Pierson.”

I draped my arms over my knees, ignoring the chill that developed as rivulets of water ran down my back from my wet hair. I stared unseeing at the far wall, not wanting to meet my father. Having observed him last night, I could foresee no possible relationship between us now.

With a soap-covered hand, Mrs. Coleman pushed back a wisp of hair that had fallen over her eyes and studied me with a mild panic before glancing at the shelf clock. A girl raced into the room carrying a steaming pitcher, which Mrs. Coleman took with brows knit together.

The next batch of water nearly scalded me. Mrs. Coleman frowned as I winced, then set the pitcher down with a clang. “’Twill be a mercy when Miss Moray arrives to serve as your lady’s maid.”

The mention of a lady’s maid brought to mind Nancy, the brash girl who served me at Am Meer. Memory of her bossy manner finally stirred emotion—one of the worst in my collection, a deep, aching loneliness. I felt it as keenly as I had the week Mama died. Despite my efforts, tears welled. I stood to leave the tub. If I remained here one more moment, I’d be crying. Water trickled down my body, raising gooseflesh.

“Mary!” The floorboard creaked as Mrs. Coleman struggled to stand. “Fetch Miss Pierson’s dressing robe. Ann, run and fetch the dress being altered. Step lively.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

While she waited, Mrs. Coleman rubbed a linen towel through my hair with a vigor that made me see lights.

The girl raced toward me again, carrying a fluttering robe of silk and lace. As she approached, she held out the garment, dragging its hem through the puddles surrounding the tub.

I accepted the useless robe without comment. What did I care that she should have selected a thick woollen one or should have warmed it by the fire?

“Best make haste.” Mrs. Coleman ushered me toward the main chamber. “Your father is in one of his moods. If you’re late, there’s no telling what he’ll do next.”

Tying a knot in the robe, I left the dressing room and retreated to the blaze in the main compartment of the bedchamber. Here, shadows competed with the lambent firelight shimmering over the walls. I eyed the movement, wondering what would happen if I refused to present myself to my father.

Tucking a wet clump of hair behind my ear, I leaned against the hearth. What was the worst he could do? Send Mr. Forrester in after me?

Mrs. Coleman entered the chamber, her arms full of wet linens, commanding the unfortunate Mary, “Don’t just stand there. Fetch the good lace petticoats!” She went straight to one of the wardrobes and reached for wooden boxes stacked inside. “Remind Eaton to iron Lord Pierson’s newspaper. If he acts sour about it, remind him that
his
footman neglected to iron the papers a fortnight ago. Grippe is no excuse. Tell James, too, that I’ll be inspecting the crystal goblets for fingerprints.”

I shivered and pulled the flimsy robe tighter. Mrs. Coleman glanced at the mantel clock as the maid raced through the room. “Five minutes!”

The door swung open and a chambermaid entered, lugging a massive gown. She breathlessly bobbed to me before turning to Mrs. Coleman. Straggles of loose hair hung from beneath her cap. “Lord Pierson’s going to be furious.”

“You’ve got cheek standing there, speaking of him thus. Talk like that again, and I’ll give you a temper more terrible than any
of Lord Pierson’s.” Mrs. Coleman blotted her brow with her apron. “Has he entered the library yet?”

The girl shrugged.

“Hurry. If he hasn’t, see if you can get James to stall him.”

The girl dipped before I caught sight of her thin legs amidst the swirl of petticoats.

“There’s trouble a-brewing,” Mrs. Coleman said to me with a shake of her head. “Your father’s not been this surly since the Reform riots. If you ask me, it’s that guest of his feeding his ill temper. I wager a month’s pay that Mr. Forrester is the one who clumped mud over my floors, not that it’s any of my business.”

Mrs. Coleman made quick work of helping me from my robe and into undergarments too large for my frame. Silently, I submitted to the flurry of being dressed. Pantaloons, layers of petticoats, and an ivory satin gown all flew at me in various shades of white.

Eyeing the hands of the clock, Mrs. Coleman smoothed my wet hair with pomade and tucked it under in a simple chignon. “Make haste!” she urged when I made no movement to stand. “There’s not time for more!”

Feeling out of sorts, I grabbed a grey shawl that lay over the back of a chair. Knowing Mr. Forrester was already awake and about certainly didn’t put wings on my feet.

At the top of the stairs I paused to view the entrance hall of Maplecroft. Frost clung to the windows, blocking all views, enclosing the house. Light radiated behind the large oval dome above the ancestral portraits. I descended, keeping my eyes upon my look-alike.

At the bottom step, I stopped to read the engraved brass plaque screwed into the bottom of the frame.
Lady Josephine Anna Pierson.
I touched her name, trying to draw strength. Now that Mama’s locket was no longer my talisman, perhaps here was my replacement.

I turned from her and studied the hall. In the weak daylight,
the plaster rosettes and ornate moldings contrasted against the Wedgwood blue, making it seem like an ice palace. The mawkish gown I wore had the weight of three dresses and completely swallowed me. But I no longer cared about my appearance.

The clack of footsteps announced that someone else had entered the hall. I turned to find James carrying a tray of piping-hot coffee and tea. He was wigged and dressed in heavy velvet. His expression was one of annoyance, and he held his arms at an odd angle, as if the thick suit of clothing chafed him. His eyes widened as he spotted me, but without so much as rattling a teacup, he assumed a formal stance. “Good morning, Miss Pierson. I am also en route to the library. Shall I escort you?”

Two emotions finally stirred. Until that second, I hadn’t realized how badly I needed even a small gesture of acceptance; thus it warmed me. Yet panic also lit through me. My ability to survive depended upon being able to shut off feeling. I had always survived that way.

“Yes, please,” was all I managed.

“The library is just ahead.” James inclined his head toward the correct door as we approached.

I nodded, nervously running my fingers over my throat as guilt washed through me at the memory of last night.

Balancing the tray on one hand, James managed to give the door a solid rap, despite his gloves.

“You may enter.” My father’s voice resonated from deep within the chamber.

I hesitated, allowing James to go first. Keeping out of sight, I heard my father’s greeting. “Yes, thank you, James. Set the tray there. Is William feeling better?”

“Yes, sir. He hopes to be back at duty tonight.”

“Good, good.”

Hoping to arrive unnoticed, I stepped up to the threshold. My father still sat behind his desk, this time clutching an old-fashioned quill pen so tightly between his fingers that it was a
marvel the shaft didn’t snap. He must have seen me from the corner of his eye, for he lifted his head. He frowned, deepening the jowls about his mouth. “James, you’re dismissed.”

While James took his exit, I curtsied, feeling clumsy.

“What time did I ask you to meet me here?” my father asked.

I placed my hands on my bodice. “Seven . . . sir.”

“What time is it now?”

My gaze flitted about the room and found yet another ornate Maplecroft clock. “Ten after.”

Mr. Forrester gave a disapproving shake of his head as he added cream to his brew. “Maybe you can tell everyone her finishing school forgot to stress the importance of timeliness.”

My father shot him a warning look but returned his attention to me. “When I summon you, I expect you to be punctual. Not one minute early, not one minute late. Is that clear?”

I barely managed a nod.

My father jotted a few more lines and then, without looking up, pointed to the door behind me with his pen. “Shut the door, Daughter.”

When I’d done so, I approached his desk, keeping my feet turned outward and my steps refined as I had practiced with Mama long ago. Refusing to so much as glance at Mr. Forrester, I dropped into a chair.

“I did not grant you permission to sit.” My father dipped his pen twice in the inkwell, still not regarding me. “You will go outside, knock, and enter the room again. This time as a young lady.”

I shifted my gaze to Mr. Forrester, who smirked and swirled the coffee in his mug.

Mortified, I stood and retreated from the room as quickly as possible, then leaned against the plaster wall. Humiliation burned in my chest. It took a full minute for me to be willing to demean myself, but I knocked.

“Enter.”

The tightness in my throat made it ache, but this time I
remained at the threshold, pulling my shawl tighter. My father scratched out a few more lines. “You may be seated if you desire.”

Taking care to walk in the manner taught me so long ago, I crossed the room. When I sat, I clasped my hands in my lap and kept my head poised. It had been years since I’d been forced to remember the rules of etiquette.

My father finished his letter. In no apparent rush, he blotted it, then laid a large book on top, covering the text. Mr. Forrester took to his feet, setting his coffee down. He opened his mouth, but my father held up a hand for silence. For a moment, I suspect he saw how vulnerable I felt, for he shifted uncomfortably in his seat and his face softened. “Have you been well cared for in my absence?”

I clenched my hands and drew them toward my stomach. “Yes, I’ve been very comfortable; thank you.”

Mr. Forrester made a huffing noise, as if frustrated at the waste of time, before throwing himself back into his seat.

My father’s jaw tightened as he ignored him. “Tell me how you made use of your time.”

“I . . . I explored your house.”

“My house?” He sat back in his chair and poured himself coffee. “Maplecroft is now your house too. What else?”

My mouth felt dry as I tried to think of something useful I’d done. “Th-there is nothing else.”

He angled his head, displeasure bristling his features. “Do you mean to sit there and tell me you spent nine days doing
nothing
?”

When I glanced at Mr. Forrester, he smirked again and further swirled his coffee. I struggled to compress my rising anger toward my father for lecturing me before that man. Gritting my teeth, I answered his question. “Forgive me,
sir
, but what else was there to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Mr. Forrester leaned back and crossed his legs. “What about leafing through your father’s documents and smuggling them to Eastbourne?”

“Robert,” my father warned him.

“We agreed this was necessary,” Mr. Forrester spat back. “You know as well as I do, this won’t work if you interfere or try to turn this into tea. Let me question the girl already.”

My father studied me a long moment, the burden of his thoughts causing his shoulders to sag. With a stricken expression, he stood and waved permission to Mr. Forrester. “All right. Go ahead.”

The chair creaked as Mr. Forrester put his cup aside, then leaned forward and scrutinized me. “Look at that,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?” His gaze darted to the library door before returning to me. “What were you up to?”

I fisted my skirt and pulled a layer of it toward me as fear webbed through me. “I’ll thank you not to make assumptions. How would you know whether I slept or not?”

Mr. Forrester’s grin would have done a cat justice. “You forget, luv, I know what you look like the morning after you’ve spent your night unsupervised with Macy.”

My breath felt stolen from me as I stared back at him. Perspiration soaked my chemise. With a pleading expression, I begged Mr. Forrester to stop. I could bear the stigma of my scandal, but not with my father present.

“So where were you?”

It felt like fleece lined my throat, but I finally managed, “Bed.”

Beside me, I heard my father stand, uncork a bottle, and pour a drink. Mr. Forrester frowned in his direction as if disliking the interruption, but he rubbed his palm over the top of his trousers and, after clearing his throat, started anew.

“Tell me about Dillyworth.”

I gave him a confused look.

“Leatherbarrow?”

Pulling my shawl tighter, I shook my head.

“Colburn? Ripley?” Mr. Forrester’s voice grew in intensity.

My fingers felt hollow as I pieced together that these names must belong to men who’d had dealings of some sort with Mr. Macy. I shook my head, denying any knowledge.

“Oh, come now!” Mr. Forrester screamed, jumping from his seat. I cringed as he stomped toward me. “Do we look that stupid? Do you really think we’ll be fooled into thinking you have
no
knowledge of these men?”

Terrified, I looked to my father for help. He stood angled away from the scene, his entire body stiff as he heaved gulps of air through his nose.

At that juncture in my life, I did not understand that this was no less of a trial for him. All I saw was a man who stood idly by as his daughter was bullied. Any trust I might have placed in him vanished; thus we began our relationship like two dance partners out of step.

I would like to write that when I returned my attention to Forrester, I let him know in no uncertain terms that I was innocent and would not be spoken to that way. It is tempting to gloss over my faults, especially as my age now makes me the sole survivor. Who is left to contradict?