Authors: Emily Bryan
For years, Pygmalion shunned the company of others. Now when he found himself set aside, solitude was not so pleasing a thing.
“His lordship is occupied at present,” Addison, the stiffly formal butler informed them. “However, Lord Dorset gave instructions that your every need should be attended, so if anything should be amiss, please bring it to the attention of the staff.”
Hook-nosed, sunken-cheeked with only a wisp of hair on his head, the man reminded Crispin of a very old turtle.
“The marquess wished to be notified of your arrival and I shall do so.” Addison ran a vaguely disapproving eye over each of them. “In the meantime, Jenkins will show you to your chambers. Dinner is served at eight. Jenkins, if you please.”
A very handsome footman appeared wearing powder blue livery and a startling powder blue wig. Jenkins made a leg before them and invited them to follow him up the grand curving staircase.
“Oh, not you, Mr. Hawke,” Addison called after him, his heels clacking on the marble floors. “The cottage has been prepared for you.”
It came as no surprise to Crispin that he’d be relegated to the status of a visiting servant, but the slight still rankled him. He considered doing a little statue of the marquess as Pan, the cloven-hoofed god, having his way with a stray nanny goat, in token of his thanks.
Crispin could donate it to White’s, where it would be sure to be seen and appreciated.
The thought of shaming the marquess thusly gave him much less pleasure than he’d hoped. The illusory power he wielded over the high and mighty through his art really wasn’t much when compared to the real power emanating from a marquessate.
Crispin couldn’t raise his eyes to Grace. He didn’t want to watch himself shrink in her estimation. He had very little capital to expend in that regard.
“Thank you,” Crispin said, determined to put the best face on things, but his teeth involuntarily clenched. “I understood a space separate from the main house would be available for my studio.”
“Quite,” Addison said. “Your man Wyckham has set everything to rights for you there.” His lip curled slightly, a bit of disdain he wasn’t quite equal to concealing. “One is sure you understand that it would be highly inappropriate for you to stay as one of the guests in the main house.”
“Why?” Horace Makepeace backtracked down the staircase to stand beside Crispin.
Addison blinked in surprise. Most of the marquess’s guests were so in awe of Dorset’s power, prestige and obvious wealth, they wouldn’t question his decrees.
“You’ll have to forgive him, Addison. Mr. Makepeace is an American,” Crispin said. “They have little notion how easily our aristocracy feels contaminated by its inferiors.” He clapped a hand on Horace’s shoulder. “It’s all right. I prefer privacy. I’m certain the cottage will be fine.”
Horace frowned. “If you’re sure. We’ll see you at supper, then.”
Addison cleared his throat. “Actually, one feels Mr. Hawke will be more comfortable dining in the cottage. Cook will send round a plate of something.”
“Which
one
are you talking about who’s doing all this feeling?” Mr. Makepeace rounded on the butler. “Is this how Lord Dorset makes his guests welcome? We’ll see Mr. Hawke at supper, or my family and I will leave right now the same way we came.”
“Sir, might one suggest that there are certain standards that his lordship’s household is obligated to uphold,” Addison said.
“Standards that obviously can’t make room for a Yankee trader or his daughter.”
“No, no, sir. That was not implied at all. Oh, dear.” Addison turned to Crispin, obviously hoping for more help since he’d given on the question of his accommodations.
This time Crispin wouldn’t budge. Damned if he’d settle for a “plate of something” while Dorset paid court to Grace over his dining table.
Addison’s jaw worked under his skin for a moment. “We’ll lay an extra place for Mr. Hawke.”
Mr. Makepeace smiled. “Thanks, Addison. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Tell Lord Dorset we appreciate his hospitality. See you at supper, Hawke.”
Crispin nodded and listened with half an ear to Addison’s directions to the cottage. He chanced a glance at Grace, who was still waiting for her father on the first landing of the grand staircase. She sent Crispin a quick smile, then turned to follow Jenkins to the upper floors of the mansion.
Very good, my lady. Toss the rabble a crumb.
Crispin turned and forced himself not to limp as he strode out the tall double doors.
Claudette greeted Grace at the door of her sumptuously appointed room. “
Vraiment,
it is a palace, I tell you. Is this not fine, mam’selle?”
The chamber was worthy of a marchioness. The rosewood bedstead and matching vanity were polished to rich brilliance. The counterpane was of costly damask and shot through with threads of gold. A carved marble fireplace was flanked by a pair of yellow chintz chairs with matching ottomans.
An ivory and jet chess set was arranged for play on a burled oak table between the chairs. A selection of books was propped on the mantel.
“The marquess seems to be signaling he recognizes that I possess a mind,” Grace said as she ran her fingertips along the mantel.
Three Palladian windows opened onto a view of the garden and a set of French doors led to a narrow veranda. With Claudette babbling happily behind her, Grace wandered onto the balcony.
Which was so far above the garden below, no one could climb up without a rope ladder attached to the granite railings. Crispin couldn’t—
She mentally kicked herself for imagining such a wicked thing.
Beyond the formal garden, there was an exercise yard between a long row of stables and outbuildings. A girder-and-glass greenhouse was situated near a duck pond. A large willow dipped into the water.
But Grace couldn’t see anything that remotely resembled a cottage.
“And through here,” Claudette said as she shepherded Grace back inside and into one of the anterooms, “
Le voila!
Your own water closet. There you see, a drain, she is built right in the floor. I only have to haul the water up for your bath, not the down also.” Claudette’s eyes sparkled. “Oh! Perhaps I make a footman do that,
non?
That Monsieur Jenkins, his eyes they turn to me”
“What about Mr. Wyckham?”
Claudette snapped her fingers. “This I give for Monsieur Wyckham.”
“But I thought you said you liked him because he knew what to do with his tongue.” Grace felt her cheeks heat because now she had a much better inkling of what a man’s tongue might accomplish.
“Oh, la! And now he is using that tongue to try to tell me what to do.” Claudette straightened the already tidy pillows propped on Grace’s bed and pummeled them in the guise of plumping. “
Non,
I will not have it.”
Grace wondered whether her maid was imagining Mr. Wyckham’s ornery face on the cushions she was flagellating. Or if she had another part of his anatomy in mind.
“You seem upset,” Grace observed. “What is it Mr. Wyckham wants you to do?”
“It is not what he wants me to do.”
“But I thought you said—”
“It is what he wants me
not
to do.” Claudette bustled over and began undoing the row of buttons marching down Grace’s spine. “Come, mam’selle, the bath, she is ready now. You want to look your best for Monsieur le Marquess,
non?
”
She didn’t wait for Grace to respond, which was a mercy because Grace really wasn’t sure how to answer the question. She’d tolerated his lordship’s attention and basked in her mother’s florid approval, but there was no flutter in her belly, no desire to please the marquess especially. If she was actually contemplating marrying the man, surely there ought to be.
As her maid helped her undress, Grace realized why she liked Claudette so much. The Frenchwoman was perfectly capable of carrying both sides of a conversation without obvious effort. Which gave Grace freedom to think her own thoughts unhindered.
“This person I shall not speak to,” Claudette said vehemently. “That one I may not look at. I should not allow another one to turn his eyes to me.” She rolled her own delphinium blue ones at Grace. “As if I can help if a man’s eyes go this way or that!”
“It sounds as if Mr. Wyckham cares a great deal about you.”
“Hmph!
Non,
I tell you who he cares about. He cares about Wyckham.”
Grace allowed herself to be shooed into the water closet and stepped into the bath. It was still blessedly warm and began to unknot all her travel kinks.
“He thinks to make me a
thing,
“ Claudette complained. “A bauble he hangs about his neck or puts in his pocket.
Non,
I belong to me.”
Claudette soaped up the washcloth and began to scrub Grace’s back with vicious efficiency.
“Monsieur Wyckham can go chase himself. I will be no one’s thing!” Claudette declared. Then she handed Grace the soap and cloth and left her to finish the rest of her ablutions in peace, as Grace preferred.
But as she soaped her body, it occurred to Grace that a marchioness might well be considered a “thing.”
Galatea didn’t understand Pygmalion half the time and was puzzled by him the other half.
But then she made a discovery that began to shed light on his soul.
“
Flower Arrangement Made Easy, The Complete Guide to Housekeeping or The Thrifty Matron,
and
A Brief History of Tatting.
” Grace read the titles of the books on her mantelpiece aloud. “Perhaps Lord Dorset doesn’t admire my mind as much as I supposed.”
“Perhaps not, mam’selle.” Claudette surveyed her handiwork and stepped closer to tuck one of the hairpins back into Grace’s elaborate do. “But he knows little of you yet and you give him plenty to admire until then. You are lovely and I am brilliant with your coiffure,
non?
”
“Yes, you are,” Grace admitted. “No one else has ever been able to bring such order to the chaos on my head.”
Claudette loved to be praised whenever she managed to wrangle Grace’s locks into a fashionable style. And as difficult as Grace’s flyaway tresses were, she deserved every accolade.
Grace decided to wear the gown Crispin had helped choose for her. The unusual color combination gave her confidence, and she wanted to send him a subtle message with her choice. She deplored the way he was shuffled out to a distant cottage as if he weren’t the greatest living artist in all Britain.
And she intended to speak to Lord Dorset about it at the first opportunity.
She headed for her chamber door.
“Mam’selle, it is not yet time for the supper,” Claudette said.
“I know. I want to find the library before we dine. Surely they must have one in a house this large. Perhaps Lord Dorset has a collection on mythology I’ve not yet seen.” Grace gathered up the sorry offering of books on the mantel. By title alone, they earned the right to catch dust somewhere else. “Besides, you deserve a rest, Claudette.”
“
Merci.
” Her maid dropped a curtsey.
“Tres bien.
My little room, she is adjoining yours, right through that door. The bellpull by your bedside rings for me there.
Bon soir,
mam’selle.”
“I’ll try to have a good evening,” Grace said. Whatever else the night held, she suspected there would be fireworks of some sort at supper. With Crispin and her mother and Cousin Jasper at the same board, how could there not?
She slipped into the corridor and retraced her steps down the long staircase to the imposing foyer. Surprisingly, she didn’t find anyone at the door from whom she could ask directions to the library. So she set off on her own, books tucked under one arm, a small kerosene lamp lifted from a side table in the other hand. If she failed to arrive at the dining room at the appointed time, someone would launch a search party.
They’ll need one, along with a knowledgeable guide,
she decided after traversing several parlors and a music room, where a butterfly grand piano stood in one corner and a full-size harp in another. The rooms rolled into each other as if they were waves, cresting in succession back home on Revere’s Beach.
And surprisingly, the rooms were illuminated by wall sconces flickering gaily even though no one was in them.
Grace felt foolish carrying the lamp, but was certain that as sure as she set it down, she’d run out of well-lit spaces.
“Someone needs to read
The Thrifty Matron,
“ Grace muttered. She wondered if the marquess was merely showing off for his guests by having so many needless lamps burning or if this was his usual wasteful mode.
She decided to assign the most charitable view to the waste. The marquess’s home was so grand he probably expected his guests to explore a bit.
Then she entered a smaller space filled with oddities from exotic places. Chinoiserie screens vied with medieval tapestries. The head of a disgruntled water buffalo glared down at Grace from above the small fireplace. A statue with several spare pairs of arms writhed on a side table, but the ottoman fashioned from what appeared to be an elephant’s foot struck Grace as most unusual. The marquess, or someone in his ancestry, was an intrepid world traveler.
Then after wandering unimpeded through the grand spaces, she finally came to a closed door.
It wasn’t locked so she pushed it open a crack to find the first dark room she’d encountered.
I knew I’d need the lamp sooner or later.
She eased the door completely open, and it protested with a long screech.
Then she realized the room wasn’t completely dark. At the far end—and the end was truly far for the room was enormous, dwarfing all the ones she’d previously visited—there stood a solitary woman with a lamp similar to the one Grace held. She was looking up at a painting on the wall, lifting her lamp as she scrutinized different portions of the huge work.
“Come in, if you’re going to or else close the door behind you,” the woman said without a glance in Grace’s direction. “But have the goodness to make up your
mind quickly. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s indecision.”
Grace had to go in then, if for no other reason than to learn who this woman was. As Grace drew near, threads of gold sparked in the woman’s elegant gown and several jewels winked on her uplifted hand. Her hair was white, but it was swept up in the latest style as if she were a debutante. She held herself perfectly erect, defying time by sheer dint of will.
Based on her age and mode of dress, Grace suspected she was Lord Dorset’s mother, the current Marchioness of Dorset. She’d be the dowager marchioness once her son married, so Grace dropped a curtsey in deference to her rank.
“If you’re going to be in here, at least do me the courtesy of holding your lamp steady. You’re casting the most awful shadows,” the marchioness said without a flick of her eyes in Grace’s direction.
“I ask your pardon, my lady,” Grace said reflexively and lifted her lamp to aid in the marchioness’s perusal of the art.
Grace looked up at the larger-than-life portrait. An ornate monogram was centered at the foot of the work with a large CRS emblazoned amid gilded curlicues and loops. A polished Hessian rested atop the monogram. Grace lifted her lamp higher so she could see the man’s face clearly and gasped.
“Oh, yes, he had that effect on the ladies all his philandering life,” Lady Dorset said coolly. “A handsome devil, eh, what? May I present my husband, Christian Sinclair Royce, seventh Marquess of Dorset, Earl of Umber, Viscount Siddon, and Baron something-or-other—oh, I do find those ancillary titles so tedious! And of no use whatsoever to someone who, if there be a God in heaven, is roasting in hell as we speak.”
Grace flinched in surprise.
The marchioness turned a shrewd eye on her for the first time, peering up at Grace. “And you must be the Makepeace chit. He said you were tall. He failed to mention you were a giantess.”
First Lady Dorset insulted the memory of her husband—whatever his faults may have been, Grace had been schooled not to speak ill of the dead—and then the marchioness insulted her. Grace straightened her spine.
“I find my height useful when I want to look down on small people.”
The marchioness laughed. “Oh, very good. How I hate it when people fail to say what they are thinking! You just might have a brain.” She eyed the books tucked under Grace’s arm. “And I see you found the reading material I left for you in your chamber.”
So much for Lord Dorset’s supposed tribute to her mind.
“Yes, and as long as we’re saying what we think, I must admit these are not to my taste,” Grace said. “I was trying to find the library to return them and choose something different. I apologize for intruding on your…if you don’t like your husband, why are standing in the dark looking at his portrait?”
The question was impertinent, rude actually, but Grace could no more keep the words from spilling out her mouth than she could keep her hair from escaping its pins.
“I never said I didn’t like him.”
“But you said he should be roasting—”
“Oh, that.” The marchioness waved her damning comment away. “Theology was never my strong suit, and besides, if there is a loophole around the payment for sins God exacts from rakes, I’m sure Cris found it.”
“Cris,” Grace repeated. The name that sent Crispin into a fury.
“He broke my heart a dozen times.” Her expression softened as she continued to gaze at the painting of the outrageously handsome dead marquess. “He’s been gone sixteen years and I wish the scoundrel back every single day.”
“Lord Dorset doesn’t favor his father in looks,” Grace said, still eyeing the portrait in superstitious awe. But the dead marquess looked so much like someone else she knew, even down to the unusual pewter gray eyes, a tickle of apprehension ran down her spine.
“No, Richard is not much like his father. He takes after my side of the family.” Lady Dorset sighed. “I greatly fear he’ll never find a young lady who deserves him, but he has the succession to think of, so we have to make allowances, I suppose. Still, one ought to have some standards.”
She turned her gimlet gaze back to Grace. “Well, if you don’t like the practical books I chose for you, what sort do you like?”
Grace mentally reeled with the abrupt change of topic, but she was grateful as well. It was uncomfortable to feel the marchioness’s private pain, and less comfortable to hear her doting praise of her son and veiled references to Grace’s general unworthiness of him.
“I’m a student of history and most especially mythology,” Grace said.
“Rubbish!” Lady Dorset pronounced them both. “Can’t think why you’d bother your head with the past, a young thing like you.” She gave the portrait one last look and snuffed out her lamp. Then she took Grace’s arm, leading her back toward the well-lit areas of the house. “Time enough for that when time is all you have. Now then, let’s go to the library and you can find whatever folderol pleases your little upstart heart.”
“I’m sorry you think I’m an upstart,” Grace said.
“Well, of course I do. What else would you call a colonial and one with only the slimmest connections to aristocracy to boot?”
“William the First was called a bastard before they called him the Conqueror, so I expect he was an upstart, too,” Grace said. “In fact, if you go back far enough in anyone’s lineage, I assure you there will be ‘upstarts’ to be found.”
She knew she shouldn’t speak so to Lord Dorset’s mother, but she was sick to death of being made to feel as if she was somehow inferior by virtue of her commoner birth.
A crooked smile spread over Lady Dorset’s face and a silver brow arched. “Well, Miss Makepeace, I see you’ve put that study of history to good use. That was as good a set-down as I’ve had in quite some time.”
Grace dropped a curtsey. “I ask your pardon—”
“Don’t you dare! It was quite refreshing. I like a girl who speaks her mind. Richard might just be right about you.”
As Lady Dorset chattered away, Grace decided she liked her, too, despite her bluntness. Or maybe because of it. There was something comforting about knowing exactly what other people thought because they didn’t hesitate to tell you.
Once they reached the library, Lady Dorset directed Grace to a small section devoted to mythology. To Grace’s delight, she found three titles that were new to her.
“When you are ready,” Lady Dorset said, “the dining room is down the corridor. Take the first right, then the second door to the left.”
“Aren’t you dining with us?” Grace asked.
“Oh, no,” Lady Dorset said. “I make it a point never
to dine with less than a viscount at the least. One must maintain certain standards. However, I would welcome you and your mother for tea in two days’ time in my apartments.”
Grace wasn’t sure whether to be insulted that Lady Dorset wouldn’t deign to eat with her and her parents or pleased that she’d condescended to extend the invitation for tea.
And as Grace made her way to the dining room, she wondered how she’d find the courage to tell Crispin there was a portrait of a man whose face was the spitting image of his hanging in Lord Dorset’s great hall.