Anne Barbour Page 9

  “Next week,” promised Amanda grandly, “we’ll whip up a batch of fudge.”

  “That will be nice, miss,” replied Hutchings expressionlessly.

  As the days passed, she was uncomfortably aware that the realism of her stay in Regency London seemed to increase. Some of her experiences surely came from the depths of the research she had done for various papers, but she was sure she had never considered the everyday discomforts of life in the early nineteenth century. The air pollution, from thousands of coal fires, was much worse than anything she had experienced in her own time. And when, she wondered dismally, would the invention of toilet paper come to pass?

  Thus, the days slid by until one morning, Serena announced to Amanda just after breakfast, “No walks in the Park for you today, missy. You will stay home, if you please, and rest.” At Amanda’s blank look, she continued in some indignation, “Don’t tell me you have forgotten about the Marchford ball? It is tonight, and I want you to look your best.”

  Amanda knew a moment of panic, for this would be her first large formal occasion. She forced herself to relax. She had managed her masquerade with relative ease, so far. Not one of young Amanda’s acquaintances suspected there was anything wrong with her beyond a small disruption of memory due to a bump on the head. The ball, she assured herself, would be a piece of cake.

  In this assumption, she was to be proved very much mistaken.

  Chapter Eight

  In preparation for the evening’s festivities, Hutchings took more time than usual over her ministrations, and when the little maid had finished, Amanda gazed at herself for some moments in the mirror. She could hardly believe her eyes. Could this apparition truly be Amanda McGovern, plain of face and twisted of body? She was gowned in a robe of celestial blue satin, over which floated a tunic of silver net. About her slender throat lay a web of sapphires that exactly matched her eyes. Her golden hair was gathered in an artful knot atop her head, circled by a tiny fragile tiara of the same stones. Airy tendrils escaped to curl deliciously about her classic features. Dear God, Amanda breathed, she’d never before fully appreciated the concept of “drop dead gorgeous.”

  She turned to her maid. “You’ve really outdone yourself, tonight. Thank you, Hutchings.”

  “It’s a pleasure to have the dressing of a beautiful lady like you, miss,” replied the maid with a little grin. “You’re a credit to me.”

  Amanda’s responding smile was a little apologetic. “I hope Papa pays you well to turn me out in such style. Good God, you’re at my beck and call every waking moment of your day. Don’t you ever get some time for yourself?”

  “Why yes, miss,” replied Hutchings in surprise. “I have every Thursday afternoon off, and all the staff is allowed time to go to church on Sundays. A good Christian household, this is. And I’m almost the highest paid servant in the place,” she added pertly. “Twelve pounds a year, your papa pays me, and that includes my meals and a room of my own.”

  “My God,” breathed Amanda. “That’s less than twenty dollars!”

  “I don’t know about that, miss, but it’s more than many a lady’s maid earns, and it does me fine. Plus, with the gowns you give me—the ones you don’t wear anymore—I don’t have to pay anything for clothes—except my working things, of course.”

  Amanda gazed at her in disbelief, but said nothing, and after a moment, at Hutchings’ lifted brows, raised her hand in a gesture of dismissal. When the maid had whisked herself out of the room, Amanda sat for some moments with her chin in her hand. Her gaze drifted again to the image in the mirror—the flashing jewelry around her neck and in her hair. She glanced at the box on her dressing table overflowing with more hideously expensive baubles, all bought for Jeremiah Bridge’s daughter for his own greater glory. All the while, how many thousands clung, like Hutchings, to the bare edge of survival? Amanda knew an urge to dash into the streets, crying out against this horrendous inequity. The twentieth century had its problems, but at least some progress had been made against such wickedness.

  Amanda glanced at the little clock that stood on her bedside table. Lord Ashindon would be arriving any minute. Why had he absented himself from the Bridge household for lo, these many days? Had his meager supply of ardor cooled so soon? Was he regretting his proposal? It had surely been given grudgingly enough. Odd, she wouldn’t have pegged the earl as a fortune hunter. A man who wore his pride and arrogance like a suit of ceremonial armor scarcely seemed the type to grovel at a rich man’s feet for the hand of his daughter.

  She shrugged. None of it really made any difference, after all. Suppressing the flutter of excitement mixed with panic that made itself felt in the pit of her stomach, she ran a hand over her blue satin skirts and stepped out into the corridor.

  As it happened, she began her descent of the stairs just as Ash was admitted to the house. Handing his outer coat, hat, and gloves to Goodbody, the butler, he turned to watch her approach down the curving staircase. A guilty pleasure flooded through her as his eyes widened.

  “You are looking exceptionally lovely tonight, Miss Bridge.” He brushed her gloved fingertips with his lips. “I shall be the most envied man at the festivities. Perhaps,” he added, drawing a small packet wrapped in tissue paper from his waistcoat pocket, “you will deign to carry this.”

  Carefully unwrapping the little parcel, Amanda gasped in delight as she drew out a fan. It was made of silk, stretched over slender, carved ribs of ivory and delicately embellished with medallions depicting mythological scenes.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said simply. “It is lovely.”

  And you’re looking pretty fantastic yourself, she added to herself. Lord Ashindon in coat and pantaloons was an impressive sight, but in evening dress he was nothing short of magnificent. He wore satin breeches that molded themselves admirably to his muscular thighs. A coat of dark silk afforded a glimpse of embroidered waistcoat and nestled in his intricately tied cravat, a single diamond winked in the candlelight.

  “I shall ask immediately that you save me the permitted two dances. I would ask for more, but there is no point in affording speculation for the gabble-mongers until your mama makes our declaration public.”

  “Oh!” Amanda nearly dropped the fan. “I do not dance—that is ...” Her laughter came faint and high-pitched. “I seem to have forgotten how.”

  “Indeed,” said the earl imperturbably. “You have no knowledge of cotillion—or quadrille? How about the waltz?”

  “Oh, yes, I can waltz.”

  Ash’s brows shot up. “Now that is peculiar. The workings of the human mind are indeed inscrutable, are they not, for one to forget the steps to one kind of dance, but not another.”

  His expression held nothing but polite interest, but Amanda felt her back stiffen.

  “You implied at our last meeting, my lord, that I was pretending a loss of memory, but I thought you must have discarded that ludicrous misapprehension by now.” Lord, she thought, startled, she was beginning to sound like something from a Jane Austen novel. “However, if you—”

  “Not at all, Miss Bridge. You are too quick to take me up. I was merely voicing a certain curiosity. You shall find me at your side when the first waltz is struck.”

  “My lord, you are here!” Serena Bridge bustled into the hall from the back of the house. “I did not hear you arrive. Amanda, what can you be thinking of to let his lordship stand about like this.” She grasped the earl’s arm and propelled him purposefully into the drawing room. “Mr. Bridge will join us in a moment. He is in his study at present—or no, here he is now.”

  Jeremiah Bridge, garbed in evening dress, provided a marked contrast to Ash. In breeches and coat, the man looked as though he were being physically restrained in a prison of cloth, and that if he were to breathe deeply, coat, breeches, waistcoat, and cravat would fly apart in all directions. Disregarding his wife and daughter, he advanced, smiling on the earl.

  “Ah, my lord,” he said with a wolfish smile of gratification.
“Good of you to join us tonight.” Leading Ash into the drawing room and followed dutifully by his wife and daughter, he gestured expansively to a settee covered in amber satin and with his own hands poured a glass of sherry for himself and his guest. Seating himself in a chair opposite, he launched into a lengthy explanation of the press of business that had kept him occupied until late in the afternoon.

  “Ugly business, this advance of Napoleon,” he concluded. “Got the market stirred up as though someone had let a hive of bees loose.”

  Amanda pricked up her ears. Let’s see, if this was April of 1815, the Corsican Monster must have escaped from Elba only a few weeks ago. He must be marching on Paris right about now.

  “Where is Wellington?” she asked interestedly. “If I remember rightly, he must be in Brussels.”

  Both men swung toward her as though she had just requested directions to the nearest bawdy house. Jeremiah’s formidable brows beetled in astonished disapproval.

  “What?” he asked in his customary bellow.

  Amanda began to repeat her words, but was interrupted by Serena.

  “Goodness, Amanda, dearest, this is certainly not a topic for a well-bred young lady.” She pinched her daughter’s arm and shot her a meaningful glance.

  “You mean,” Amanda snapped, “young English ladies aren’t supposed to know that young English men are dying in a foreign land for their country?”

  “Amanda!” Serena was close to tears. She shot an anguished glance at Ash, who was staring intently at his betrothed. “You must forgive her, my lord. She is still sadly discomposed by her— her recent ordeal.”

  Ash said nothing, but his eyes remained on Amanda as Serena hastily turned the conversation to a more innocuous subject.

  At the table, Amanda, of course, was seated next to Ash, who held the place of honor to Jeremiah’s right. She could think of little to say to him and addressed herself vigorously to the serving of indeterminate meat set before her.

  “What is that?” she asked in some puzzlement.

  “Why, it’s calves’ brains, dear, made up in the Florentine style, just the way you like them.”

  Amanda stared dubiously at her plate. “Really? Do you—we— have this stuff often?”

  Jeremiah sent her an uneasy glance. “It’s good English fare,” he barked. “Now, let’s hear no more about it.” He swung to Ash and said hastily, “By the by, did you sink any funds in the new gas works, as I told you to do? Made a tidy profit on that today.”

  “Yes, I did,” Ash replied easily, but Amanda noticed that his grip tightened on his fork.

  “Ah,” said Jeremiah, his satisfaction apparent, “how much did you invest?”

  Ash’s mouth tightened and the fingers holding his fork turned white. His tone was casual, however, as he replied, “Surely, sir, this subject cannot be of any interest to the ladies.” He turned to Serena. “I wonder if you have read the copy of The Bride of Abydos that I procured for you the other day, ma’am.”

  Amanda eyed him curiously. Though he frequently allowed his contempt for Jeremiah to burst through his mask of indifference, Ash was unfailingly courteous to Serena. Was he genuinely kind? she wondered, or was it that his unbending pride demanded a rigid standard of behavior toward those who had no defense against rudeness.

  Serena’s gaze flew immediately to her husband, and she shifted in her chair agitatedly. “Oh! Yes—that is, no. You see—”

  “Bride? Abydos?” Jeremiah bellowed. “Isn’t that some of Byron’s rubbish?” He glared down the table at his wife. “Didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t have any of his stuff in the house?”

  “Oh, yes, dearest.” To Amanda’s disgust, she observed that Serena was very nearly in tears. “But, all the world reads his work, and—”

  “Have you read the poem—Papa?” asked Amanda innocently.

  “Of course not!” Jeremiah’s cheeks mottled in anger. “I wouldn’t dirty my hands with such trash let alone permit it in my house.”

  “Well, it’s a little silly in spots,” remarked Amanda, “but I don’t know as I’d go so far as to call it trash.”

  Jeremiah’s mouth fell open, which was, perhaps, unfortunate, since he was at present masticating a large portion of calves’ brains. “Don’t tell me you’ve read the thing?”

  “All right, Papa,” replied Amanda demurely. “I shan’t tell you anything of the sort.”

  “Now see here, missy—”

  “It is entirely possible,” said Ash coolly, his voice falling on Jeremiah’s incipient diatribe like a spray of water, “that now that he is married Byron will settle down and become a loving husband and father.”

  Amanda laughed shortly. “I wouldn’t bet on that. By this time next year, Anabella will have left him, with their baby, and not too long after that—” She stopped abruptly. “At least—that’s what will probably happen,” she murmured lamely, and finished in a rush. “I wonder, could I have some more of those delectable calves’ brains?”

  The dinner plodded on through several more courses, which included beef and lamb in various forms, covered in various sauces, and concluded with a massive assortment of pastries. Amanda could only marvel at the earl’s continued sang froid, even though, to her heightened perception, distaste and a sort of sad horror radiated from him like dissonances from a badly tuned violin.

  Afterwards, the Bridges and their guest gathered in the drawing room for postprandial conversation. After fifteen minutes of this, Amanda was ready to grab the earl’s hand and dash out into the night for a lungful of fresh air. At last, however, Serena rose.

  “It’s time we were leaving, my love,” she said to Jeremiah, who heaved himself to his feet with some reluctance. Outer wraps were called for and the carriage brought round. Amanda’s last thought as she was handed in to sit beside her mother, was that tonight’s party could not possibly be any more of an ordeal than dinner had been.

  Sir Barnaby and Lady Marchford lived in Hill Street, a quiet thoroughfare that sloped down to Berkeley Square. “A fashionable address,” said Serena Bridge, her lips curving in satisfaction, “but hardly of the distinction of Upper Brook Street.”

  Tonight, the street was anything but quiet. A multitude of carriages of every shape and description jostled for position, with the general destination being a large town house just about halfway down the hill. Flambeaux lit the exterior in a flickering radiance and footmen and link boys scurried like mice, responding to shouted orders from coachmen and other servants.

  Amanda drank in the sight, for it was the embodiment of a hundred scenes she had absorbed from books. She could hardly wait to get inside.

  Her wish remained unfulfilled for almost an hour, and when the Bridge party at last disembarked on the sidewalk outside the Marchford home, they found themselves immediately swept up in the procession entering the impressive edifice. Once inside, another wait lay in store for them as they joined a long line of guests that wound through the hall and up the staircase to the ballroom above. The persons just ahead and behind the Bridges were apparently unknown to them, so there was little conversation, but a good deal of nodding and genteel waving took place. Serena, her fixed smile never wavering, kept up a steady stream of instruction to Amanda under her breath.

  “Look, there is Lady Bumfret in the puce satin. That is her daughter Hermione with her. You and she went to school together, although she has not deigned to take up the connection. Odious woman!” The words were accompanied with a widening of her smile and a waggling of her fingers at the lady in puce.

  “And, see,” continued Serena, “just coming in the door are Lord and Lady Robert Meecham. You must be particularly nice to her, for she is a friend to Lady Jersey, and when your betrothal is announced I count on getting vouchers from her. Oh!” She gave a start. “If that isn’t Georgina Faversham and her mama. Wave, Amanda. Gracious, doesn’t the girl look a fright in that gown? Why in the world would Maude let her wear yellow?”

  The catalog continued without interruptio
n as the group slowly ascended the stairs, and Amanda was acutely conscious of Ash’s presence just behind her. Good grief, what must he think of the Bridge family? Although, by now he must be perfectly aware of the general awfulness of his soon-to-be-acquired relatives. Meanwhile, Amanda listened carefully to Serena’s monologue, gleaning clues for future reference.

  At last, they reached their destination, and, at the entrance to the ballroom were announced in rotund tones by a liveried servant. A plump matron with a profusion of teeth, all of which showed when she smiled, grasped Serena’s gloved hand.

  “Serena! How lovely to see you! Good evening, Mr. Bridge.” This in slightly less cordial accents. “And, dear Amanda—in looks, as ever, I see.”

  Her husband, whose protuberant eyes twinkled from beneath bushy eyebrows, chuckled in agreement. “You’ll have ‘em all buzzin’ around, m’dear, like bees to a honey pot.”

  “Lord Ashindon!” exclaimed Lady Marchford. “You have come, after all. Welcome.” Her gaze darted between the earl and Amanda, and she bestowed a knowing congratulatory smile on Serena before turning her attention to the next guests in line.

  Amanda looked around in appreciation at the scene before her as Serena steered her daughter into a large drawing room. Crowds of guests drifted in and out of the room, and young women garbed in whites and pastels provided a backdrop for the older ladies, who looked very much like blossoms cast adrift on a stream in their gaily colored gowns. The gentlemen all wore sober colors, thanks, Amanda supposed, to the influence of Beau Brummell.

  With a bow, Ash left the ladies to their own devices, and Amanda was surprised at how forlorn she felt at his departure. Which was, of course, absurd. The man was merely a presence in what she persevered in calling a hallucination. The fact that her fantasy was becoming ever more complex and real to her and seemed to be lasting an awfully long time was becoming of greater concern to her—but she wouldn’t think about that now.