Lady of Fortune Page 10

  “Oh, yes, yes!” Jonathan stood, shaking with his excitement. “And … you’ll even buy me a commission in the Hussars?”

  “If they’ll have you,” Alex said with a half-smile.

  “You’re the best brother anyone ever had!” Jonathan exclaimed. “Can I go now? I want to write to my friend Robbie. He wants to go into the Guards,” he added scornfully.

  Alex snorted with the contempt of a Navy man. “I never could tell one regiment from another. Can’t see that it makes any difference.”

  His brother looked momentarily outraged, then laughed out loud when he saw he was being teased. Apparently teasing was as new an experience as being asked his opinion on his future. Beaming joyously, Jonathan left the room with more speed than grace.

  Alex watched him go thoughtfully. The boy was already showing some of the exuberance that should be natural at his age. His view of the Army was somewhat romanticized, perhaps, but Alex felt the choice was basically sound. It was gratifying to be able to please his brother so easily; really, this head-of-family business wasn’t difficult at all!

  When Annabelle returned from breakfast with her brothers the next morning she found her new abigail carefully evaluating her wardrobe. Annabelle watched for a moment, then said apologetically, “I know a great deal of work will be required. What do you suggest?”

  Christa turned to her with shining eyes. “Miss Annabelle, we are going to have a most wonderful experience—everything must be replaced! When will you be out of mourning?”

  Annabelle’s face tightened before she said, “My mother died at the beginning of June, so it is about two weeks more.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Christa said gently.

  “Well, I am not!” Annabelle said defiantly. “I don’t miss her at all, in spite of what Aunt Agatha said.” Then, defiance crumbling, she started to cry. Christa guided her to a brocade chair, and produced an embroidered handkerchief; fortunately, it was one of the first things she had located earlier.

  Annabelle sobbed for several minutes before coming up for air. “I have wanted to say that for so long, but there has been no one to talk to. It would not have been fair to Jonathan to discuss it with him, and my Aunt Agatha would have been appalled at my lack of filial respect, even though she and my mother couldn’t abide each other.” She twisted her handkerchief and looked up pleadingly. “Do you think I am appalling?”

  Christa considered a moment before answering. Her love for her own mother was as natural and unquestioned as the spring rain, but such was not always the case. “I do not think a child owes a parent love; it must be earned, like any other love. Not all parents are worthy.” She looked at Annabelle’s soft blue eyes and gentle face, then went on, “You look to me like a girl who wants to give love. It is a great tragedy if you have had no one willing to receive it.”

  “You do understand!” Annabelle smiled with relief; after exposing so much of herself, it would have been very hard to be condemned. “But I do not wish to make a Cheltenham tragedy of it. I have been lucky in my brothers. Jonathan and I are closer than … than if we had had kinder parents. I always miss him dreadfully when he is at school. And Alex has been so good. We didn’t get many letters, of course, because he was so much at sea, but it was exciting when they arrived—like a window on a different world.

  “Sometimes he would send presents. Always the most wonderful things—Spanish lace, Arabian jewelry, porcelain all the way from China … Once he even sent a monkey—it was the drollest creature! The lieutenant who delivered it said that the next time he saw Alex he was going to launch him from a cannon for extracting the promise to deliver the beast to Jon and me.”

  “He sounds a very thoughtful brother,” Christa said encouragingly. “Do you still have the monkey?”

  Annabelle’s amusement vanished as quickly as it had come. “It got into my mother’s wardrobe and ruined a dress. She had one of the footmen wring its neck.”

  Christa was momentarily nonplussed. What could one say in response to such a story? Finally she asked quietly, “How did your mother die?”

  “In a carriage accident. She was with one of her lovers.” Annabelle tried to appear blasé, but her eyes would not meet those of her maid.

  Christa considered retreating to a servantlike discretion but decided it was far too late for that. Besides, she had the feeling that this extraordinary conversation was a much-needed release for her new mistress, a release that would enable Annabelle to start looking forward rather than back.

  “You need not live your life as your mother did.”

  “I could not if I tried,” Annabelle replied with brittle nonchalance. “She was beautiful. Men would forgive her anything.”

  “And women?”

  “She did not care what women thought.”

  “A woman who could not care for other women—she sounds much to be pitied,” Christa said seriously.

  Annabelle looked startled at that. “In what way?” she asked curiously.

  “To be unable to care for other women is to be unable to love oneself. Did she seem a happy woman?”

  “Why … I never really thought about it,” Annabelle said in surprise. “No, I don’t think she was happy. In fact, I know she was not. She was always complaining; nothing was ever right. She would be a little happy when she had a new lover she prized, but that would quickly pass.”

  “You see? You are not like her. You may suffer because you care, but that means you have also the capacity for happiness. Have you not known joy?”

  “Why, yes … yes, I have. There have been times when I thought no one on earth could be so fortunate or happy as I.” Annabelle smiled at Christa shyly. “You have given me a great deal to think on.”

  “That is quite enough seriousness for one day,” Christa proclaimed. “One does not hire a French maid because one wishes gravity. It is my job to make you as delectable as one of Monsieur Sabine’s pastries. We have four months before your come-out to do the job.” Cocking her head to one side, she inspected her mistress. “Four weeks would be enough, and only that long to give the modiste time to create your wardrobe.”

  Annabelle almost bounced in her chair. “Do you really think it is possible? I rather like the idea of having men fight for my favors.”

  Christa waved her hand grandly. “After you are presented in the autumn, St. James’s Square will be carpeted with men begging you to walk on them. I, Christine Bohnet, promise it!” She was so carried away with her rhetoric that she almost used her own rolling name and title. Really, she must be more careful—with this trusting girl treating her more like a friend than a servant, it would be all too easy to forget her role. No, not her role: her station in life. She must always remember that.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. Christa opened it to find Alex. Really, a delightful man to find on the threshold, she decided. Those amber eyes were a most unusual shade, warm but mischievous at the same time. Or was it the lurking twinkle that was so appealing?

  “Good morning, Christa. Is my sister receiving visitors?”

  Annabelle jumped up and ran to give him a hug. Christa found herself envious; she would enjoy having an unlimited license to hug such a man. Her body shivered deliciously as it recalled the strength and firmness of his grasp the previous day. She firmly repressed the memory; many a maid had been lost after thinking such thoughts.

  “Of course! Please come in. Christa has been telling me how she is going to make me beautiful.” Annabelle smiled teasingly. “I think that it may be very expensive.”

  Alex entered and straddled one of the chairs, his arms crossed casually on top of the delicate back. It was a totally unNavylike posture, and it felt good. He studied the two young women for a moment before speaking. His sister was clearly the beauty of the two, with a lovely dreaming face and great sweetness of expression, yet it was Christa who drew the eye. The French girl had a vividness about her that made every other woman he had ever known seem only half-ali
ve by contrast.

  “I’ve been thinking, Annabelle. Shall we go to the Orchard soon? The town will be thin of company by the time we’re out of mourning, and I have a desire to see the family seat.”

  Annabelle exclaimed delightedly, “Oh, that would be wonderful. I haven’t been there since Father died. You know how Lady Serena hated the country.”

  Alex glanced at Christa, enjoying her sparkling gray eyes and the dark curls that escaped her cap. Really, she had the most kissable lips. Did Frenchwomen always look like they were either entering or leaving a bed? He pulled his thoughts back to the business at hand with difficulty. “How long will it take to get some new clothes made for my sister? The sooner we burn her present wardrobe, the happier I shall be.”

  “It will take no more than a week or so for a country summer wardrobe,” Christa replied. “The modiste can work on the formal gowns for her come-out while she is away.”

  “Very good.” He nodded. “Belle, can you be ready to leave on Friday week? I see no virtue in lingering here.” Though he did not speak of it, Alex thought the three Kingsleys would relax more quickly in the informal atmosphere of Suffolk. And it was time to start learning the ways of a gentleman farmer; the Orchard was a principal source of the family income.

  Annabelle looked a little uncertain. “Christa, will that be time enough for the sewing?” Now that a new wardrobe was in the offing, she would have been loath to forgo it.

  “I think so,” Christa affirmed. “At least … Is there someone who does your dresses now?”

  “Yes. And I don’t ever want to set foot in her establishment again! Do you have someone you can recommend?”

  “Yes, there is a new shop called Suzanne’s. I know Mme. de Savary, the owner, and she has the finest fashion sense I have ever seen. Because she is just establishing her business, I think I can promise you that she will give very good service. And her prices are très reasonable.”

  “That isn’t critical,” Alex commented. “My prize money has accumulated amazingly, and I want my sister to have the best.”

  “Oh, this will be the best,” Christa said with a twinkle. “And if you are determined to spend your money, we will just have to buy twice as many clothes!”

  “Very well,” he laughed. “Use your judgment. But, mind you, my sister must look splendid.”

  Tired of being discussed as if she were absent, Annabelle said sweetly, “Would you like to come with us to Suzanne’s? We must begin this undertaking forthwith.”

  “The devil I will!” Alex said in an appalled tone. “Oh … sorry, Belle, you made me forget my language. And no, you little minx,” he added with a grin, “you are not getting me anywhere near such a place. All I care about is results—the means I leave to you and Christa.”

  The viscount rose to take his leave. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

  He felt even more satisfied than after his talk with Jonathan. It appeared that all his brother and sister needed was the opportunity to stretch their wings—he was pleased with their progress. But as he left the house it was not his siblings that occupied Alex’s mind—it was a pair of sparkling gray eyes and a body whose curves were designed to be touched.

  Christa nodded approvingly when she followed Annabelle into Suzanne’s. She had visited the shop once or twice when running errands for Lady Pomfret, but the most recent visit had been a month before and there had been changes since. The cluttered look Mme. Bouchet preferred had been renounced in favor of simplicity. The walls were now covered with a delicate rose wallpaper, and several comfortable chairs were grouped by a table with copies of The Ladies’ Magazine. A few choice garments were displayed in the carpeted salon, and in one corner several lengths of fabric were twisted into a rosette, then allowed to sweep to the floor. Although little money had been expended, the shop had acquired an air of gentility it previously lacked.

  Suzanne herself came to meet them, elegant in a dark blue gown that managed to look as businesslike as it was flattering. She raised her brow questioningly at the sight of her cousin’s companion, so Christa hastily performed the introduction. “Miss Annabelle, may I present Mme. de Savary? Suzanne, this is my new employer, Miss Kingsley. She will be out of mourning soon and will need an entire wardrobe.”

  “Indeed?” Suzanne’s speaking glance told Christa that explanations would be required later, but for the nonce her attention was focused on her new customer. “Your timing is good, Mademoiselle Kingsley. I have just received Herr Heideloff’s Gallery of Fashion, and two new fashion dolls from Paris as well. The styles should be very becoming on you. Will you take a seat while I bring them? And perhaps a cup of tea as well?”

  Annabelle was delighted to be treated with such attention. When she had visited her mother’s modiste she had been ignored or treated as a child, except for Lady Serena’s occasional unflattering comments on the deficiencies of her daughter’s figure. However, Annabelle was shocked when the book of fashion plates was brought for her inspection.

  “Mme. de Savary, how could I possibly appear in public dressed like this? Why, these are no more than shifts! My mother said the robe de chemise was indecent,” Annabelle said falteringly, her eyes fixed in fascinated horror on a plate showing two women in flimsy summer dresses.

  Suzanne smiled understandingly. “It is true older women avoid the new styles. They are better suited to slim figures such as yours. Perhaps your mother was a little envious.”

  Annabelle was much struck by the comment; could it be that the devastating Lady Serena had not wished to be seen without her stays? Her eyes began to shine with unholy glee. “Madame, do you have a chemise that I might try on?”

  Suzanne nodded. “Oui, I keep several samples made up for customers to see the effect. Come into the fitting room.”

  Christa and Suzanne would not let Annabelle look in the mirror until they were satisfied with her appearance. First they removed her stays, then provided a lightweight shift and a soft lawn dress in creamy white. Christa unpinned the thick blond hair and made some quick adjustments, then did something with a ribbon. Stepping back, she nodded with satisfaction. “What do you think, Miss Annabelle?”

  Annabelle turned to face the mirror, then stopped in speechless wonder at the sight of the stranger in front of her. The chemise had a low neckline, light puffed sleeves, and blue ribbon ties at the neck and below the breasts. The ties gracefully hinted at the body beneath the translucent fabric; then the dress fell into gentle, classical folds. The ribbons banding her hair matched those of the dress, and gave her a Grecian look as her golden curls fell simply over her shoulders. She felt half naked; the look was startlingly different from the heavily constructed dresses she had been wearing. Startling, but not unattractive—not unattractive at all. Turning to the women who awaited her verdict with a shining smile, she said, “I think this will do very well.”

  The rest of the afternoon was spent in an orgy of happy decision-making. The fashion dolls were particularly useful because in every detail they were dressed and coiffed exactly like real women. As she gave her mistress the first doll, Christa remarked, “Is it not strange, Miss Annabelle, that England and France are at war, yet frivolities such as these pass freely between the countries?”

  Suzanne clucked in mock disapproval. “Au contraire, Christa. War is a frivolity, one of those foolish games men indulge in. Fashion—now, this is a serious business!”

  The three of them laughed together, and even the seamstress taking Annabelle’s measurements permitted herself a chuckle. After all, does not a proper dress improve any occasion?

  Suzanne stocked some French fragrances, and Annabelle had a pleasurable time sniffing them. She considered Hungary water and eau de cologne, and almost bought a vial of l’eau admirable, a refreshing blend of citrus, lemon, bergamot, neroli, and lavender that was very different from the musky scents her mother had favored. However, when Christa was consulted, that young lady agreed that it was a fine blend, but perhaps just a bit … common? It had been first d
eveloped almost a hundred years before and a number of women wore it.

  After more sniffing, Annabelle chose a simple essence of violet. Christa gave her approval to this one. “It is unusual, Miss Annabelle. Delicate but with a haunting sweetness—exactly right for you.”

  Annabelle felt absurdly pleased to have won her maid’s approval; she humbly accepted that she had much to learn from these two Frenchwomen.

  As Annabelle and Christa prepared to return to St. James’s Square, Suzanne said, “Very well, then. The first three dresses will be ready the day after tomorrow, and I will have more fabrics then for your approval. Christa has a list of the accessories that will be needed—gloves and slippers and the like. We have made a good beginning, no?”

  Annabelle nodded in satisfaction. A very good beginning, indeed.

  Chapter Eight

  The Monday before departure to Suffolk was chosen for Annabelle’s fashion debut. It was only to her brothers at a family dinner, but Annabelle was still nervous, so Christa dedicated most of the afternoon to preparing her mistress. During the previous days she had made several visits to chemist and herb shops to secure the necessary ingredients for making beauty aids. First, she washed Annabelle’s hair, then rinsed it repeatedly with a camomile infusion.

  “What will this do?” Annabelle asked.

  “It brightens blond hair. If your hair was dark, like mine, we would use rosemary for richer highlights.” Christa’s strong fingers kneaded Annabelle’s scalp gently. “Then, because your hair is very fine, we will end with a beer rinse.”

  “Beer?”

  “Yes, it will make your hair seem thicker.”

  “But I can’t face my brothers smelling like the brewhouse!”

  “I promise the scent will be gone by the time your hair dries.” Christa smiled roguishly. “Though smelling ever so slightly of beer would make you attractive to most men.”