Frederica in Fashion (2 page)

Frederica leaned her head back and decided to enjoy the drive and forget about her future life as a servant. She imagined instead that she was going home, driven by the vicarage coachman, John Summer. Betty, the former maid, would be waiting at the door, and all her sisters, still unmarried, would be there to greet her and make a fuss over her. The twins, her brothers Peregrine and James, would not be young men at Oxford University, but schoolboys, laughing and joking the way they used to. They would all laugh and gossip and then Minerva would tuck them all up in bed and read them a story.

The vicarage had never really been the same after Minerva left to get married, thought Frederica wistfully. Minerva had been the real ‘mother’, the one to whom they all had turned. Now Minerva had a husband and children of her own.

Minerva!

Frederica sat bolt upright. She had asked Miss Grunton to post that letter to Minerva. What if Minerva did not yet know of their father’s proposed marriage? Certainly, the vicar had shown no signs of saying anything about it at Diana’s wedding.

She bit her lip. Well, Minerva would need to know about it sooner or later.

But worries came crowding into Frederica’s mind. What if she did not get a post in the duke’s household? What then?

She thought furiously and then decided to bespeak a room for the night at the inn. She would also, if she secured the job, need to leave behind most of her belongings. She did not want to occasion comment by arriving with a wardrobe of fine gowns. A chambermaid would be expected to have a summer dress and a winter dress, and very little else apart from her uniform, a uniform which Frederica hoped would be supplied. And if she
did
not get the job, then she would have somewhere to stay the night while she planned what to do next.

Most of her clothes were much too pretty anyway, thought Frederica gloomily. She
had
been pretty once, she remembered, but when she was thirteen she had contracted the smallpox, which, although it
had left her unmarked, had somehow seemed to fade everything about her – her eyes, her hair, and her personality. Things and people seemed to hurt so much, thought Frederica. And the more they hurt, the more you crept farther back into your shell for fear of being hurt again.

Once, when she was fourteen, she had been shopping in Hopeminster, the county town near Hopeworth, with her mother. A deaf, elderly
gentleman
had suddenly said in a loud voice to his companion, ‘Never tell me that’s one of the
Armitage
gels! She’s a homely little thing.’

How
that
had hurt! For weeks and
weeks
it had smarted and burned.

But Frederica’s spirits took a mercurial upsurge as she looked around the smiling countryside. She could hardly believe she, of all people, had finally and actually
run away
, the sort of thing only very bold people did. ‘So I cannot be so very timid and lifeless,’ said Frederica aloud. Her little bosom swelled with pride. Diana was Frederica’s heroine. Now she was behaving as bravely as Diana!

‘I shall go on being brave,’ said Frederica, still speaking out loud, that habit of the solitary. ‘It is such a wonderful feeling.’

She smiled sunnily at the driver of the post-chaise as he helped her down outside
The Magpie,
a wide, enchanting smile which seemed to turn her eyes as blue as the sky above.

‘Bless my heart!’ thought the driver. ‘What a pretty little thing.’

He good-naturedly told miss that she would find
The Magpie
thin of company because it had, until recently, the worst food for miles around and the lumpiest beds. But the new proprietors, Mr and Mrs Gilpin, had made a fair job of bringing it up to scratch, and miss would find everything of the best.

Frederica thanked him and tripped into the inn.

She was well aware that seventeen-year-old misses did not arrive at inns sans maid, sans booking, sans any servant or companion whatsoever. But her pleasure in her own newfound bravery carried her through the necessary lies. Her maid had fallen sick and had to remain behind at the seminary. Yes, her papa would be calling for her on the morrow.

She was shown up to a pretty bedchamber by Mrs Gilpin and promised a cold collation when she came back downstairs. Frederica had already noticed two tables set out in the inn garden which ran down to the edge of a sparkling river. She asked if she might eat her meal out of doors, and then set about looking through her clothes, selecting the plainest items.

When she was eventually found to be missing, they would surely discover this inn and find her clothes. Of course, if she did not pay her shot, then the landlord might sell her clothes to defray the bill and that might hurt Frederica’s generous sisters who had presented her with so many of the pretty gowns. Frederica sighed. So many things to think of! She would pay her shot in advance and that would solve the problem.

A chambermaid came into the room to light the
fire. Frederica studied her with interest. She was a thin, pale girl with red hair and a freckled face.

‘Have you worked here for long?’ asked Frederica, judging the girl to be about her own age.

The girl bobbed a curtsy. I must remember that, thought Frederica. Always curtsy. ‘About five year, miss,’ said the maid. ‘I started work for the old owners, but they wasn’t as nice as Mr and Mrs Gilpin.’

Bad grammar, mused Frederica, is essential.

‘And do you work very hard?’ she asked.

The chambermaid’s eyes shifted uneasily. ‘I do me work well, miss.’

‘I am sure you do,’ said Frederica earnestly. ‘But is it very exhausting?’

‘Beg parding?’

‘I mean, do you get
tired
?’

‘All who works gets tired,’ said the maid, her mouth beginning to set in a mutinous line. ‘Now, if you’ll be excusing of me, miss …’

She poked her head under the bed, withdrew the chamber pot, and, finding it empty, replaced it.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Frederica aloud. ‘Chamber pots! I had forgotten about
them
.’

The chambermaid eyed her nervously and began to back towards the door.

‘Would you be wanting anything else, miss?’

Frederica wanted to ask her all sorts of questions but knew the maid had already decided this young visitor was strange, to say the least, so she shook her head.

After the maid had left, she decided to put on one of her grandest gowns before going downstairs. She would not have a chance to wear anything so fine, ever again.

She put on a white muslin morning gown, and, over it, a white muslin pelisse, opening down the front and ornamented with a deep flounce. Both pelisse and gown were high-waisted. She tied a white chip Gypsy bonnet on her head and then donned lemon kid gloves and shoes.

She did not look in the glass to admire the effect since Frederica always found her reflection sadly disappointing. She merely checked to see that her hat was on straight and that her soft kid gloves were wrinkled up to the elbow in quite the best manner.

After she had paid for her room in advance, she was ushered into the garden by Mrs Gilpin and served with a cold collation.

‘It is very quiet here,’ said Frederica, sighing with pleasure as she looked about the sunny garden.

Mrs Gilpin thought she was talking about the inn. ‘It’s a quiet time of year, miss,’ she said defensively, ‘and it’s not as if we’s on the main London road. Furthermore, this place got such a reputation for bad victuals as never was. Folks are just beginning to find out about us. Why, the Duke of Pembury hisself oft comes here now.’

‘What is he like?’ asked Frederica. ‘The duke, I mean.’

‘A fine gentleman.
A real
gentleman. Not like some. And them tattle-tales in the village can call
him the Wicked Duke till they’s black i’ the face, but it won’t change my mind.’

‘The Wicked Duke!’ said Frederica faintly. ‘Why do they call him that?’

‘Because they’ve got more hair than wit. Now, would you be wanting wine or ratafee?’

‘Lemonade, please,’ said Frederica.

The landlady turned and bustled off.

Frederica’s pleasure in the quiet garden had somewhat dimmed. The Wicked Duke. Perhaps he was a dreadful old lecher, but free with his money, which was why Mrs Gilpin would like him. Oh, dear! But low mortals such as chambermaids would have nothing to do with so grand a person as the duke. Her fate would depend more on the
temperament
of the housekeeper.

Frederica picked up her knife and fork, and decided to eat first and think some more about the problem later.

It was very pleasant in the garden. An old peach tree leaned against a mellow brick wall. The river rippled and chuckled at the foot of the garden and birds were building their nests in the branches high above Frederica’s head.

‘It would be wonderful,’ she thought, ‘if life could always be like this, pleasant and warm and secure.’

Then the peace was disturbed by the rumble of arriving carriage wheels. Frederica hoped the new arrival or arrivals would not join her in the garden.

Then, ‘In the garden, I think,’ came a deep voice, and just as Frederica was recovering from a twinge
of annoyance because her solitude was going to be disturbed, Mr Gilpin’s answering voice said, ‘
Certainly
, your grace. There is a school miss in the garden, but I’ll tell her to move.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ answered the deep voice.

The duke! The Duke of Pembury! Frederica wished she had put on a poke bonnet instead of the frivolous Gypsy affair which did not conceal one bit of her face.

She dropped her knife and fork and half made to rise, her food barely touched, when that deep voice said right behind her, ‘Pray be seated. You do not need to stand.’

Frederica blushed and sat down without looking around. The duke obviously thought she had jumped to her feet out of deference to his rank.

All her usual timidity came flooding back like the tide of red suffusing her face. Her knees trembled and she felt quite sick.

But it was so awful to revert to shy, frightened Frederica again, just when she had been enjoying the novelty of being brave and adventurous. Only look at the way she had so boldly demanded to have her meal served in the garden … well,
requested
. She straightened her spine and resolutely picked up her knife and fork.

She was intensely aware of the tall figure sitting at the other table, a little way away, although she could not bring herself to look at him direct.

Then the full staff of the inn appeared in the
garden, laying the cover for his grace, bowing before his grace, offering his grace wine, offering his grace every kind of delicacy that the inn had to offer.

‘I wasn’t offered a choice of
anything
,’ thought Frederica, and the cold collation, which had looked so appetizing, now looked dull and tired.

She decided to assert herself, and, pushing the lemonade a little away, she said in a loud voice, ‘I would like some wine. Canary, if you please.’

‘In a minute, miss,’ said Mrs Gilpin.

‘I would like some wine now,’ said Frederica, feeling she was behaving very badly indeed, and at the same time enjoying the novelty.

Mrs Gilpin muttered something and hurried off. Soon a decanter of canary was put in front of Frederica along with a clean glass. Mrs Gilpin hurriedly poured out some wine for Frederica and then rushed off to attend to the more important customer.

Frederica had still not looked at the duke.

She kept her face slightly averted for she did not want the duke to see her too clearly in case he might recognize her later.

The duke was finally served and Mr and Mrs Gilpin and their servants withdrew.

Silence fell again on the pretty garden. Shadows of new leaves moved across the grass and a thrush sang his repetitive serenade to spring. The warm air smelled of newly cut grass, woodsmoke, roasting meat and wine.

Frederica had firmly decided to quell any overture from the duke, should he try to speak to her.

But he did not.

As the wine in Frederica’s decanter sank lower, so did her spirits grow bolder.

She began to feel piqued that this duke had not even bothered to say good day.

She turned and looked at him fully for the first time.

TWO

There was a long silence while the ill-assorted pair studied each other.

Frederica thought the title of the Wicked Duke suited her companion very well.

He had thick, black hair worn longer than the usual fashion. His eyebrows were very thin, black and arched over jet-black eyes with curved eyelids. His face was very white and high-nosed and his mouth was firm and rather cruel.

He was well above the normal height with broad shoulders. His blue morning coat had a black velvet collar, his long waistcoat was black, as were his breeches and top boots. His hands were long and white and a large ruby ring blazed on the middle finger of his left hand.

But it was not his appearance alone that made him look so satanic. It was the air of cruelty mixed with arrogance that seemed to emanate from him.

The duke saw a rather colourless schoolgirl in a very modish gown and pelisse. He noticed her take stock of him and then saw the slight smile of distaste that curled her pink mouth.

‘I’ faith, Miss Whatever-Your-Name-Is,’ he said, ‘I do hope your curiosity is satisfied, for I am not in the way of being stared at like some two-headed freak at Bartholomew Fair.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Frederica, quickly turning her head away.

She knew she had been very rude to stare at him like the veriest yokel, but she really never had seen anyone quite like him before. Her brothers-in-law were all imposing men, but not one of them seemed so devilish as this duke.

She picked up her knife and fork again,
determined
to finish her food as quickly as possible and make her escape.

But, at that moment, Mrs Gilpin and two waiters came into the garden, bearing the duke’s meal.

For once, Frederica blessed her colourless appearance. The duke would not recognize her if he saw her in his household as a servant.

The garden was again quiet. She gave a little sigh and bent to pick up her reticule.

‘It is a pleasant day, is it not?’ said the duke.

Frederica pretended not to hear. She no longer wanted to find herself engaged in conversation with someone who, she hoped, was to be her future employer.

‘Are you deaf as well as insolent?’ demanded the duke.

Throwing caution to the winds, Frederica turned and faced him.

‘I was not aware you were speaking to me, sir,’ she said coldly. ‘What did you say?’

‘It is of no matter. What are you doing, at your age, living unescorted in this out-of-the-way inn?’

‘Because you are obviously a great deal older than I,’ said Frederica primly, ‘it does not give you the right to ask me personal questions when we have not even been introduced. But, as a matter of fact, I am waiting for my father. He is to join me here and escort me home.’

‘Home being where?’

‘Do stop asking questions,’ said Frederica crossly.

The Duke of Pembury raised his thin eyebrows. He had never in all his life been so snubbed by any female, young or old.

‘My name is Pembury,’ he said haughtily.

‘Well, Mr Pembury …’ began Frederica maliciously.

‘I am the Duke of Pembury. I own all the land about here.’

‘I do not know whether you expect
congratulations
,’ said Frederica, ‘but since you probably inherited it all from your father, you were no doubt simply trying to impress me.’

‘Impress
you
. My dear girl, I am not in the way of trying to impress anyone.’

‘Really? You surprise me.’

The duke glared at her, and then he smiled. ‘I have never before met anyone who managed to make me feel quite so pompous or so ancient.’

Good-naturedly, Frederica smiled back, that wide, enchanting smile of hers that lit up her whole face.

‘You are not
very
old,’ she said in a kind voice.

‘I am over thirty.’

‘Never mind. You do not show your years
at all
, I assure you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said dryly. ‘You have not told me your name.’

‘Miss Frederica Armitage.’

‘Armitage? Not the famous Hopeworth Armitages?’

‘No,’ lied Frederica. ‘Hopeminster. But I am not related to the Hopeworth Armitages.’

‘I thought not.’

‘No,’ said Frederica’s canary-wine-loosened tongue pertly. ‘I am not pretty enough.’

‘I did not say so.’

‘But you thought it.’

‘Odd’s fish, girl, did that seminary of yours not teach you to put a curb on your unruly tongue?’

Frederica flushed slightly. ‘I think I have had rather too much wine to drink,’ she said candidly. ‘I am not in the way of drinking wine.’

He studied her curiously and found himself wondering about the colour of her eyes. A moment before, when she had smiled, they had seemed blue, then, when she was angry or upset, they turned a silvery colour. Most odd.

‘Do you have many servants?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you a good master?’

‘I employ good masters. I make a point of seeing that my servants are well-fed and well-dressed.’

‘Do you like them? Your servants?’

‘
Like
them?’ Again the thin eyebrows went up. ‘My dear child, I do not hire help or have help hired because of charm or popularity. A man or woman must be neat, unobtrusive, and hard-working.’

‘Why are you called the Wicked Duke?’

‘Because of the follies of my youth. I was very wild.’

‘And now you are reformed?’ Frederica sounded a shade disappointed.

‘No, merely staid and old, Miss Armitage. Pray drink some lemonade and leave that wine alone or goodness knows what you will ask me next.’

‘Are you much at home?’ pursued Frederica, pushing away the wine decanter and dutifully filling a glass with lemonade.

He smiled. ‘No, I travel a great deal. I shall shortly be leaving for London to be there when the Season begins.’

‘Why?’

‘That is quite enough. I have indulged you sufficiently. Oh, dear, how oddly you look at me. I am looking for a wife, and a wife is usually to be found at the Season.’

‘But there are ladies everywhere.’

‘None, perhaps, suitable to my rank.’

‘Surely character and … and … a pleasing manner, and honesty … and … and oh, humour and things like that are of more importance than rank.’

‘I have a very large establishment. The lady I marry would need to be a good hostess, witty, well-dressed, and amusing.’

Frederica fell silent.

She felt she ought to leave. She obscurely felt this sinister-looking duke was dangerous. But she was aware of his gaze on her and she felt too
self-conscious
to rise from the table.

‘And you, Miss Armitage,’ came his voice, ‘do you plan to visit London this Season?’

‘No, I shall be employed … elsewhere.’

‘But you do plan to marry?’

‘No, your grace.’

‘Your parents have need of you at home?’

‘No, your grace. My mother is dead and my father has servants enough.’

‘You do not like men?’

‘I fear, your grace, I have decided that gentlemen do not like me. I am not well-favoured.’

‘Stuff,’ he snapped. ‘You have all the makings. You have simply not yet learned how to use them.’

All at once appalled at the intimacy of the conversation and sobered by fresh air and
lemonade
, Frederica rose to her feet. He punctiliously stood up, his tall figure looming over her in the sunny garden.

‘Forgive me,’ said Frederica. ‘I must leave.’

He bowed.

Frederica swept him a low curtsy. Frederica’s curtsies were a miracle of grace and deportment, and one of her many social talents.

The duke stood watching her as she left the garden. He had a sudden impulse to call her back. The strange colourless little thing had enlivened the tedium of his existence. It would have been amusing to make her smile again, and see how that enchanting smile of hers turned her briefly from a plain school miss into something beautiful and elusive.

He sat down again, reminding himself that he had already behaved far out of character by talking to her for so long.

Frederica retired to her room and sat for a long time, deep in thought. She would stay the night at the inn, and travel to Hatton Abbey in the morning. It was as well that great personages such as dukes did not employ their servants themselves.

The Duke of Pembury finished his meal in the garden and then called for his carriage.

He recollected with some irritation that he had invited a great number of guests who were all due to arrive at the end of the week, and that, for once, he had forgotten to warn his staff.

When he arrived at Hatton Abbey, he promptly sent for his butler, Mr Anderson, his housekeeper, Mrs Bradley, and his groom of the chambers, Mr Smiles.

He informed them of the forthcoming house party, looking at their expressionless faces and wondering for the first time what they thought. But his well-trained servants merely murmured
woodenly
, ‘Yes, your grace. Certainly, your grace.’

‘If you need more staff, hire local people,’ said the duke, dismissing them.

He sat down at his desk and ran through the guest list which his deferential secretary had laid in front of him.

‘Lady Godolphin,’ said the duke, twisting about and staring at his secretary. ‘Why is that Mrs Malaprop, that old rip, included? I do not recall inviting her.’

‘I beg to remind your grace,’ said his secretary, Mr Hugh Grant, ‘that Lady Godolphin invited you to supper a year ago, an invitation which you accepted. You told me to return the hospitality only when there was to be a large number of other guests present since you did not think you could bear much of her ladyship’s company undiluted. I thought this house party would be an excellent occasion.’

‘Very well, I suppose you have the right of it. Lady Caroline James. My dear Grant. My dear,
dear
Grant. That is yesterday’s mutton you are serving.’

‘I invited Lady James on your instructions,’ said Mr Grant plaintively. He was a chubby young man, very much in awe of his master. ‘I did not know the situation had changed. You did not inform me of any change, your grace.’

The duke scowled. ‘I am sure … never mind, Mr Grant. I am surprised she accepted the invitation.’

Lady James was his ex-mistress. She had taken her dismissal with her usual sophisticated ease of manner and he had given her a very generous settlement.

He would have thought, however, that the
experienced
Lady James would have realized his secretary must have made a mistake.

He ticked off the other names, and, as he did so, he found his thoughts wandering back to that odd little girl at the inn. Perhaps he might send a servant over in the morning to find out if her father had arrived. Such a young lady should not be left to her own devices, especially since she had shown an alarming tendency to drink too much and become over-familiar with strangers.

Then he shrugged. Miss Armitage appeared well able, nonetheless, to look after herself. And it was highly unlikely he would ever see her again.

The next day, Frederica Armitage, leaving behind her trunks, except for one small one containing two dresses and two pairs of plain shoes and some underwear, set out from the inn.

She was wearing a plain grey gown with a black spencer. She had taken the flowers and ribbons off one of her oldest straw bonnets and crushed it into a suitably meek and unmodish shape.

The weather had turned grey and overcast. Frederica did not ask for directions to Hatton Abbey until she had walked several miles from the inn.

She was relieved to find that she had only two more miles to walk until she came to the west lodge, for the sky was growing blacker and the wind was rising.

Her courage was beginning to fail, dropping from her shoulders like a cloak. But the thought of the miles she would have to trudge back to the inn if she changed her mind, and of how she would chastise herself for her lack of spirit, drove her on.

At last she reached the west lodge. An elderly lodge keeper came out and looked at her
suspiciously
through the tall iron gates.

Frederica took a deep breath and dropped him a curtsy.

‘I’ve come about a job, sir,’ she said.

‘Expecting you, is they?’ demanded the lodge keeper.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Frederica meekly.

‘Well, come through the little gate at the side. Don’t expect me to open they gurt gates for you.’

Frederica saw a little gate at the side of the great crested iron ones and let herself through.

She could feel the eyes of the lodge keeper boring suspiciously into her back as she walked up the drive, her trunk banging against her legs.

The drive seemed even longer than the walk from the inn. It ran through fields where cattle grazed, then tall, dark woods where deer flitted silently through the trees, and then finally arrived at acres of green lawn which stretched forward to the abbey walls.

Frederica gulped when she saw Hatton Abbey. Her sisters all had grand country houses, Minerva’s in-laws lived in a huge place, but never had she seen such a formidable place as Hatton Abbey.