Authors: Fiona Locke
‘Did you find it?’
I looked around for the manuscript, but it was gone.
‘No,’ I said sadly. ‘I didn’t find anything.’
As I gathered up my clothes and followed Simon out the door I noticed the candelabrum still burning on the dressing-table. I smiled to myself as I blew the flames out one by one.
I would return to Scargrieve – alone. I felt sure Mr Fox would eventually trust me with the manuscript. When he felt I’d paid for it.
A Suitable Match
Cambridge, England, 1865
I WAS BORED
. Another dinner, another suitor. Why was my uncle trying so hard to marry me off? I hadn’t even met this Captain Hawksley. Back home in Atlanta I’d had my pick of southern gentlemen, but Englishmen were so dull and unimaginative.
There was a timid knock at the door and Polly poked her head inside. Her white cap sat askew on her head and I grimaced at the streaks of soot on her pinafore. Her slovenliness only soured my mood further.
‘Well, don’t just stand there letting in the chill,’ I snapped. ‘Do you expect me to dress myself?’
‘Sorry, Miss Angelina!’ The waifish girl scurried to my side and helped me into my corset. I wrapped my arms round the bedpost while she tightened the laces. It was obvious she’d never helped a lady dress before and I soon lost patience with her clumsiness.
‘Tighter,’ I hissed. ‘Pull tighter!’
I exhaled, emptying my body of the last breath of air and winced as she tightened the laces, drawing the whalebones in to constrict my frame. Only after much incompetent fumbling did she finally manage to tie the laces. Next came the voluminous petticoats, which Polly helped me step into. Then she pinned them in place over my frilly white bloomers: a French indulgence my uncle wouldn’t have permitted, but he wasn’t likely to
see
them.
Polly gasped as she stabbed herself with the pin. Hopeless.
‘Which frock will you be wanting, miss?’
‘The green,’ I said, inspecting my waistline in the mirror, admiring the impeccable posture enforced by the corset. I honestly didn’t care what our dinner companion thought. I found military men pompous and tiresome and I expected the captain would be no exception. No doubt he would boast of his exploits all night, one bombastic tirade after another, while I grew bored and restless. But to spurn a suitor properly, a lady must look her best.
Polly raised the rustling gown above my head and I swam through the layers of emerald green silk until the garment moulded itself to my curves. The maid had difficulty fastening it in back and I lost patience as she groped behind me like a blind beggar.
‘Wretched girl! Do those clumsy hands of yours know what they’re doing?’
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ she said, lowering her head.
‘Have you any experience at all of being a ladies’ maid?’
‘A little, miss.’
I didn’t believe her, but she finally managed the task. Dressed at last, I admired the southern belle in the mirror. My flaxen curls were pulled back from my face and adorned with matching green ribbons, setting off the deep contrasting brown of my eyes. The gown emphasised the porcelain swell of my bust and I smiled.
‘Uncle won’t be pleased with me showing so much décolletage,’ I confided to the maid. ‘But I don’t care.’
‘Ain’t that what a nice dress is supposed to do, miss?’ Polly asked shyly.
‘Oh, I had much nicer dresses before that beastly war. You should have seen me!’ I sighed. Then I grew annoyed with her for reminding me of all I had lost. I had been to all the finest balls and parties, worn the richest gowns and jewels. And now here I was in this damp gloomy country, bored silly by my uncle James and his parade of tedious suitors.
I held up the emerald necklace my uncle had given me. It matched the gown perfectly, but I didn’t care for the
earrings
, which made my face look too long. I tried a smaller necklace of semi-precious stones, but I didn’t like the idea of wearing inferior jewels.
At a loss, I turned to Polly. ‘Which do you think looks best?’
She gazed at the jewels, mesmerised. ‘Them big ones is awful nice, miss.’
I couldn’t help but grin. Yes, ‘them big ones’ would do for Captain Hawksley. He should know what he wasn’t getting. I fastened them on, not wanting to let the maid handle them.
‘You look very pretty, miss,’ she said softly.
I confess her little awestruck voice did brighten my mood somewhat. ‘What time does our guest arrive, Polly?’
‘Sir James ordered sherry in the library for half six, miss.’
It was nearly that now, which gave me at least half an hour before I needed to make an appearance. I wouldn’t dream of being on time. I sat down so Polly could lace my shoes.
‘What’s the gossip below stairs about this Captain Hawksley?’ I asked.
The girl hesitated, then shrugged. The pause told me she’d heard a thing or two. Servants’ gossip was notoriously exaggerated, but still often valuable.
‘Polly?’
She blushed and fidgeted with the edge of her pinafore. ‘Well, miss, they say he … that he …’
‘Out with it, girl!’
Polly looked up at me, then back down at the floor. ‘That he – rides his fillies hard.’
I blinked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
She shrugged sullenly. ‘Don’t know, miss. Just what they say.’
It was likely some crude reference to his courtship methods. He was a cavalry officer, after all. It wasn’t hard to figure out and I didn’t really care to hear such vulgarity.
Before I could tell her to forget it there was a knock at the door. This time it was the cook, Mrs Carson.
‘Begging your pardon, miss, but we’ve run out of sherry and I was wondering if we could offer Madeira instead.’
Why were they bothering me with such trivial matters? I sighed with exasperation. ‘Has my uncle gone missing?’
Mrs Carson had no answer for that, so I told her that Madeira would be acceptable. I didn’t care one way or another.
‘Very good, miss,’ she said. ‘And I wonder … could Polly help me in the kitchen now?’
My shoes were laced and I didn’t need the girl any more, so I dismissed her with a wave of my hand.
Polly dropped a little curtsey and left. I decided to take a turn round the grounds before presenting myself.
‘Ah, Angelina,’ Uncle James said, smiling. ‘Come in. Captain Hawksley, may I introduce my niece, Angelina Duke?’
The captain was younger than I’d been expecting. Most of the gentlemen my uncle introduced me to were old enough to be my father. I was also surprised he wore a plain black tailcoat – impeccably tailored – instead of his uniform. Most soldiers seemed to think that the very sight of a uniform would make a lady swoon from excitement. I thought the practice simply vulgar. But the captain cut a dashing figure and I confess I found him not entirely unappealing.
I closed my fan and extended one gloved hand to the stranger.
‘Enchanté,’ he said, kissing my hand in an affectedly old-fashioned manner. Oh, he was a sly one.
‘Charmed,’ I said, inclining my head and offering only the most minimal of curtseys. I loathed curtseying.
‘Would you care for some Madeira?’
‘Yes, please, Uncle,’ I said, flouncing past the captain in an impertinent rustle. My skirts brushed against him and he was obliged to take a polite step back, though I sensed it was more for my uncle’s sake than for mine.
The conversation was predictably dull and I soon grew weary of it.
‘Shooting and hunting,’ I said with a dramatic sigh. ‘The Crimean War. Is that all you
gentlemen
can talk about?’
The captain apologised with a great show of gallantry and began to tell me of London, appalling me with stories of the dreadful smells and smoke there. I had no wish to visit such a vile place and I explained that Atlanta had been far more civilised. Before the dreadful Yankees had burnt it, that was. Here I spied an opportunity and gave a little sniffle.
He offered me his handkerchief at once and I took it, dabbing at my eyes.
‘I am very sorry to have disturbed you with such talk, miss,’ he said, giving a little bow.
I hid my grin of victory.
Conversation soon turned towards my uncle’s new maid and I didn’t hesitate to voice my frustration.
‘Honestly, Uncle, she’s hopeless! I don’t wonder her previous employer no longer wanted her, but how on earth
you
came to hire her –’
‘She had no previous employer, Angelina. Mr Squyres sent her from the reformatory.’
I stared at him, aghast. A criminal serving in my uncle’s house! Could he not get proper servants?
He and the captain shared a strange smile. I didn’t care for the vulpine look that passed between them, so I decided to let the matter lie. Soon after, Polly knocked at the door and announced that dinner was served. I was relieved that my uncle didn’t insist on a formal procession, so I didn’t have to surrender my arm to the captain.
As soon as we were seated my uncle furrowed his brow at the place settings. Polly filled our wine glasses from a decanter and set plates of asparagus before us.
‘From the right, if you please, Polly,’ my uncle said with a pinched smile.
‘Yes, sir.’
When we were alone, my uncle looked down at the table. ‘The place settings are rather … creative, don’t you think?’
The captain agreed and I rolled my eyes.
‘What do you expect, Uncle?’ I asked. ‘She’s not even a proper maid.’
‘Oh, but such girls can be taught,’ said the captain.
I didn’t appreciate being contradicted, so I ignored him and ate my asparagus.
When it was time for the soup, Polly displeased my uncle by slopping soup onto the lip of his bowl. Sir James and the captain discussed ‘civic duty’ and charity and the chance she was being given, but I was simply weary of her incompetence.
When she came to clear the soup bowls Sir James addressed her. ‘Who set the table, Polly?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Were you never taught how to arrange the cutlery?’
She didn’t have a satisfactory answer for that. How on earth was the wretched girl expected to know anything about it? Surely all she knew was a life of crime and wickedness. While he kindly explained to her that the places were to be set outside in, I noticed that one of the tines of my fork was tarnished. I waited until she was almost to the door before calling her back.
‘Oh, girl? Do you think I might have a cleaner fork?’
She scurried to my side and took the fork from me with a worried expression. ‘Certainly, miss,’ she said with a curtsey before scampering out.
I took a sip of my wine and noticed the captain smiling at me.
It was a few minutes before Polly arrived with another fork and I inspected it, slightly disappointed to find it immaculate.
She refilled our wine glasses, then served the lamb and potatoes. And parsnips. I loathed parsnips. I snapped my fan open to show my displeasure.
‘I’m not eating that,’ I informed her curtly. ‘You can take that plate straight back to the kitchen and fetch me a clean one. With no parsnips. And tell Mrs Carson that in the future she needn’t bother cooking them for me.’
Perhaps a little humiliation would help her learn. It was unlikely she’d forget my preferences next time.
Polly looked worriedly at my uncle, then dropped a little curtsey. ‘I’m sorry, miss.’
Sir James and the captain continued to discuss the merits of his method of ‘reformation’ while Polly bustled around us. I didn’t doubt she would be nibbling off the plates in the kitchen and probably stealing wine from the cellar as well. Not to mention the silver. My uncle’s ‘charity’ was sheer folly.
I became more interested in the conversation when the men began to discuss discipline. The birch was used liberally in the reformatory, they said, so Polly would have no reason to suppose herself above such measures simply because she was a maid now. My uncle supposed his charity would provide her with an extra incentive and that in the end she would prove more reliable – and more loyal – than maids in the finest country estates. Maids, he added, who were
not
subject to such chastisement.
I was intrigued. Naturally, no one had ever raised a hand to me, but I found myself fascinated by the prospect of seeing the maid under discipline. The captain made no secret of his interest either. He really was quite handsome, I decided.
Several minutes had passed without Polly arriving to refill our wine glasses and I felt myself growing warm at the thought of getting the girl into trouble. I lifted my empty glass to my lips and then affected a blush, as though surprised to find myself suddenly with nothing to drink.
Frowning, Sir James pushed his chair back and strode to the far end of the table to get the decanter and refill our glasses. He left his own empty, however. He rang the bell and within seconds Polly was at his side.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I have served wine to my guests,’ he said in a simmering voice. ‘I do not care to serve wine to
myself
.’
The girl looked forlornly at his empty glass and grabbed the decanter with unsteady hands, just managing to pour the wine without spilling it.
‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
‘Yes. Go and fetch my riding crop from the hall.’
Polly whispered, ‘Yes, sir’ and couldn’t leave the room fast enough.
I giggled and covered my mouth with my hand. The evening had finally taken an interesting turn.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Captain,’ my uncle said. ‘I must apologise for the deplorable service.’
Captain Hawksley shook his head. ‘It’s quite all right, sir,’ he said. ‘Your hospitality is certainly not at fault. And I must say I’m interested to see how your little experiment turns out.’
‘Well, it is high time for a practical demonstration.’
‘Indeed.’
The nervous maid arrived and stood to attention in front of the table. She clutched the riding crop in her hands, which I could see were shaking.
Sir James pushed back his chair and got slowly to his feet. He held out his hand and Polly relinquished the crop to him, seeming both relieved to be rid of it and reluctant to progress to the obvious next stage.