Carola Dunn (2 page)

 His dark brows meeting in a scowl, he stood up, towering over his cousin. He was dressed in a brown shooting jacket, fawn buckskins, and tasselled top-boots, so it was no surprise when he announced, “I’m off to bag a few pheasants.”

 “A few is all you’ll find,” said Edward, not without a certain relish. “I haven’t had your coverts kept up as you are never here.”

 “Ducks, then. Or have you drained the North Marsh?” Reggie asked suspiciously.

 “No, you will find plenty of waterfowl and snipe there, but you scarcely have time to go so far. Your principal tenants will be here at noon.”

 “To hell with my tenants! I’ve nothing to say to ‘em, damn their impudence.”

 “I arranged the audience,” Edward said dryly, “and not at their request. I felt it to be only proper that they seize this rare opportunity to offer their obeisance. Come, cousin, you surely will not forego a chance to dazzle them with your noble condescension?”

 The prosperous farmers, the miller, and the innkeeper knew better than to consult the duke about any matter of substance. In fact, Edward had not found it easy to persuade the reluctant men that they ought to pay their respects to their absentee landlord.

 “Oh very well,” Reggie conceded, with a trace of sulkiness belied by the light in his eyes. “The new blue morning coat from Weston, I think, and my neckcloth tied in the Mathematical, with the diamond pin. I’ll see what my man suggests in the way of a waistcoat.” His broad shoulders squared to meet the challenge of impressing the peasants, the duke strode from the room.

 Just what went on beneath those fashionably coiffed dark locks? Edward wondered. On the whole, he decided, he’d rather not know.

 The Mathematical knot proving troublesome, his Grace kept his tenants waiting in the Tudor great hall for the better part of an hour. Stiffly dressed in their Sunday best, they pretended to examine the faded armorial bearings, or eyed the minstrels’ gallery and the high hammerbeam ceiling with knowledgeable mutters of “dry rot”.

 To Edward’s amusement, two of the farmers engaged him in a discussion about the possibility of draining the North Marsh, at the far end of the estate. He had to agree that it could provide a goodly acreage of excellent pasture. Let his Grace stay away another five years, he told them, and he would consider allowing the drainage.

 They abandoned him forthwith when the duke descended the age-blackened, carved oak staircase. Even his disaffected cousin had to admit he made a magnificent entrance.

 The great tailor Weston’s coat fitted him like a glove, as did his dove-grey inexpressibles. His refulgent Hussar boots shone scarcely less than the gold fobs at his waist and the gold brocade waistcoat that a stickler might have considered more suited to a ballroom. In the elaborate folds of his pristine neckcloth glittered a large diamond. His tall, elegant figure moved with a studied grace and the expression on his patrician face was one of haughty disdain. Lip curled, he raised his quizzing glass.

 Awed, the tenants moved together for support. Edward introduced them one by one. Reggie greeted and dismissed each with a gracious nod and a word or two. None ventured to do more than express his utmost respect until at last it came to Tom Miller’s turn.

 “If it please your Grace,” he blurted out, “I’ve a daughter.”

 The duke raised supercilious eyebrows.

 “She’s a good lass and a pretty un, your Grace,” the stout miller stammered, “and she’d like fine to be abigail to her ladyship Lady Elizabeth, your Grace.”

 “Indeed,” said Reggie coldly.

 Edward was ready to intervene before he gave the poor fellow a shattering set-down, or even dismissed him for his impertinence. But Tom, his always ruddy face redder than ever, was determined to do his best for his daughter and he rushed onward.

 “My Martha’s the best seamstress in the county, your Grace. Why, she can turn a scrap o’ muslin into a ball gown fit for a duchess, quick as winking.”

 Reggie’s attention was well and truly caught. “She can, eh? Lady Elizabeth’s going to need a whole new wardrobe for London. I suppose the girl could manage that in a day or two?”

 “Oh yes, your Grace, sure as eggs is eggs, and better nor any London dressmaker,” Tom boasted. “Everyone says so.”

 “Send her up to the house tomorrow noon, my good man, and we shall see what she can do.”

 “Yes, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace.” The miller went off looking pleased with himself.

 Equally pleased with himself, Reggie turned to Edward. “This will save me a pretty penny. You wouldn’t believe what the fashionable London modistes charge.”

 “You shouldn’t believe Tom Miller’s bragging,” said Edward. “He’s famous for his tall tales, and his tongue tends to run away with him.”

 His cousin frowned ominously. “You mean he’s not telling the truth? The girl can’t sew? By gad, he’ll suffer if he’s lied to me.”

 “Martha can sew, most beautifully, I understand. In fact she already makes some of your sisters’ clothes. But I suspect Miller’s vision of a fashionable London wardrobe is two or three round dresses and a ball gown.”

 “Devil take it, I’m not such a credulous slowtop as you think,” said the duke, annoyed. “I daresay it may take her several days to make all Lizzie needs. But if she is as good as he says, I shall save a small fortune I have much better uses for. Tell Lizzie to make up her mind exactly what she wants, will you, coz? I’m going duck hunting.”

 He dashed off up the stairs much faster than Edward, still protesting, could limp after him.

* * * *

 Martha wanted to skip as she made her way to the great house at midday next day. Though she restrained herself—skipping was beneath the dignity of an abigail-to-be—excitement bubbled within her.

 She touched the lucky four-leaf clover in her pocket, that she had found last summer. She was going to see London, and with her expenses paid so that all her wages could go to her parents. She was going to be living in the same house as the magnificent duke. Pa had told them what a splendid figure he made, dressed up to the nines, tall and handsome and haughty.

 Even Mam had grudgingly agreed it was good of his Grace to give Martha a chance to display her abilities.

 Of course she knew better than to expect a great nobleman like the Duke of Diss to pay his sister’s maid the least notice, but she was bound to catch a glimpse now and then. Dreaming was free, wasn’t it?

 She had no doubt of her ability to create an elegant wardrobe for Lady Elizabeth. The local gentry always sent for Martha Miller and her clever needle when they needed a special gown for the assemblies in Newmarket or Bury St. Edmunds.

 As she passed a poplar windbreak, the tall, narrow trees leafless now, she paused to admire the mansion. With its grey stone towers and turrets, imposing gatehouse and crenellated walls, it reminded her of a woodcut of a king’s palace in a book of faerie stories she had once read to old Mrs. Stewart. A fitting home for the splendid Duke of Diss.

 Walking round to the servants’ entrance in the east wing, Martha turned her mind to the task ahead of her. Silks, satins, and velvets she would be sewing, instead of the winter flannels and worsteds and the summer muslins she was more accustomed to. Rich lace by the ell, fur trimmings for pelisses, gold and silver thread embroidery—the young ladies had shown her pictures in the London magazines. If she did a good job, perhaps his Grace might smile at her?

 Mrs. Girdle, the housekeeper, who was Tad’s auntie, met her with a worried face.

 “I hope you haven’t gone and bit off more than you can chew, Martha.” She led the way up a winding stone staircase to the sewing room, high in one of the towers. “His Grace gets some mighty odd notions into his noddle, there’s no denying, and what with your pa’s getting carried away by his own tongue the way he does....”

 “Why, I’ll just have to do the best I can, ma’am,” said Martha gaily. “If I don’t get to go to London with Lady Elizabeth, well, I’ll be sorry but it won’t be the end of the world, after all.”

 “That’s a sensible lass,” Mrs. Girdle approved, opening a door off a narrow landing. “Here you are, then. His Grace sent up a tray of provisions for you, over there on the little table. Bread and cheese, he ordered, but I told Cook to put in a few lemon jumbles.”

 Martha smiled at her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

 “You have all the needles and pins and thread and such you need, do you?”

 “Oh yes,” Martha said with confidence, “not like some places I sew where they measure every inch of thread you use!”

 “I should hope not, in the duke’s household! I had the fire made up, and there’s plenty of coals and candles. I’ll leave you then, my dear. Lady Elizabeth will come up presently to tell you what she wants.”

 Martha bobbed a curtsy, and the housekeeper left.

 The big octagonal room was Martha’s favourite place to work. Its mullioned windows overlooked all the countryside about. Beyond the gardens stretched the green turf of the park, cropped by cattle, sheep, and fallow deer. Then came farmland, the dark brown of ploughed fields chequered with the green of winter wheat. A twisting ribbon of pollarded willows showed where the stream meandered across the flat fields. To the south, the village was a knot of bare, grey-brown trees and pale gold thatch, with the church tower rising at one end, the mill at the other.

 The room was a bit chilly at this time of year, although the sun shone in through the windows on the south side. Martha went to the fireplace to warm her fingers before she took off her cloak. Then she turned to the big table in the centre of the room.

 On the table lay a bulky bale, wrapped in brown paper and string. It must contain the luxurious materials she was to make up. She was eager to see them.

 She had untied one knot when Lady Elizabeth came in. A tall, pale, plump young lady, she had an unfortunate preference for yellow and green gowns adorned with multiple ruffles and bows. Martha had never quite dared to point out that they made her ladyship look sallow and even plumper.

 Lady Elizabeth was followed by a footman liveried in royal blue and white. Albert was a younger son of Farmer Winslow, over at Grey Dike Farm. Martha had known him all her life. He gave her a quick wink as he set on the table a pile of new issues of
La Belle Assemblée
,
Ackermann’s Repository of the Arts
, and the
Ladies’ Magazine
.

 Dismissing him, her ladyship turned to Martha, who curtsied.

 “As I expect you know, Martha, Cousin Edward has persuaded my brother I must have a Season in London,” said Lady Elizabeth excitedly. “Is it not splendid?”

 “Oh yes, my lady!”

 “I daresay you will be happy to see the great city, too. Reginald says you may be my abigail if you make my gowns well, and I know you will. I assured him you are an excellent seamstress.”

 “Thank you, my lady,” Martha said with fervour.

 “I daresay I shall quite like to have someone from home as my personal maid. Doubtless you will soon learn to dress my hair in the latest mode, for you are quite a clever girl. You can read, can you not?”

 “Yes, my lady. Our vicar’s wife taught me.”

 “Excellent. Look here, at these magazines. I have marked the plates of all the dresses I want, and written down notes as to the colours and any changes in design or ornament. Mama is not to have any say in my choice. My brother says her notions are shockingly old-fashioned and provincial.”

 Her Grace did indeed favour more elaborate dress than was the current mode. Though Martha held her tongue rather than agree with criticism of the duchess, she hoped that without her mother’s influence, Lady Elizabeth might opt for more flattering simplicity.

 “My brother says you are not to be disturbed at your work until every single gown is ready, so you must take all the measurements you need now.”

 “Yes, my lady.”

 Martha helped Lady Elizabeth take off her morning dress of soft, warm merino in a peculiarly sickly shade of yellowish brown. Her ladyship shivered in her shift while Martha busied herself with her measuring tape, writing down figures as tiny and neat as her stitches.

 Lady Elizabeth dressed and departed, and Martha returned to the bale on the table. Untying the last knot, she opened the paper to reveal a vast quantity—ells and ells—of plain white muslin.

 Puzzled, she glanced around the room, then under the table. Nowhere did she see any parcels that might contain other fabrics. The small cupboard held nothing but the usual needles, pins, scissors, and thread. The old cedar chest against the wall contained as always scraps of ribbon and lace, odd buttons and beads, spangles, faded silk flowers, bits and pieces of cloth that might come in handy some day.

 No doubt the duke’s footmen would shortly bring up all she needed. Closing the lid of the chest, she turned.

 In the doorway stood his Grace himself, lounging against the doorpost and regarding her with a curious smugness. He was as handsome as her brief glimpse had suggested, tall and dark, his shooting jacket and buckskins molded to his powerful figure. His boots gleamed so, Martha could hardly believe they were made of leather.

 With difficulty tearing her gaze from his splendour, Martha curtsied low.

 “Miller claims you can make a ball gown from a scrap of muslin in the wink of an eye,” he drawled. “M’cousin swears you can’t.”

 “Lord Tarnholm, your Grace?” Martha ventured, wondering why the baron should speak ill of her. Though she had never had cause to exchange a word with him, she had often seen him riding or driving through the village, and sometimes in this very house, when she came here to sew. Surely he must know his aunt and his cousins were satisfied with her needlework.

 “Lord Tarnholm,” the duke confirmed. “He vows your father exaggerates. Well, I’m a reasonable man. I shall make allowances.”

 “Thank you, your Grace.” Knowing her father, Martha bit her lip, beginning to worry. What exactly had Pa promised on her behalf?

 “Not at all.” The duke waved a gracious hand. “You can start with the simple stuff. Make up a couple of dozen morning gowns and walking dresses and suchlike by tomorrow morning and I’ll pay you well—by country standards, that is,” he added quickly.