The Bachelor's Bargain (6 page)

“Yes, my lord.”

The gossamer silk caught the flickering of the blaze and glowed with an inner radiance. “By George, I am mesmerized. This lace is a work of art. Here is our lozenge, Father, depicted in a most accurate and delicate fashion. These roses are . . . well, they are magnificent.”

“Thank you, sir.” She bent slowly toward the lace as she spoke. “I spent more than a twelvemonth in the border’s design, and I should very much like—”

“I am afraid I shall have to keep it,” he interrupted her, stuffing the lace into his pocket. “When I have your answer, Miss Webster, the lace will be yours again.”

“She told you she could not like you,” Sir Alexander said with impatience. “What more can you ask of the wench?”

“Until I know whether or not she intends to accept my proposal of marriage, I fear my father will pressure me relentlessly on that account. I must have Miss Webster’s formal rejection, and then His Grace will understand there is not a woman in the land who would willingly yoke herself to me.”

“Now, then, Lord Blackthorne,” the vicar intoned, “do leave this poor serving girl in peace. You have tormented her beyond reason already.”

“Indeed.” The duke gave his son a scowl before turning his attention to Anne. “Miss Webster, go and find Mrs. Davies at once. Tell our housekeeper to prepare the chambers of the marquess. They are to be dusted and aired with no little care. Then you may inform Mrs. Smythe to ready an elegant dinner on my son’s behalf. Stop at nothing. We shall have the finest from our larder.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Tearing her eyes from the marquess’s waistcoat pocket, Anne gave the duke a curtsy.

“Prepare the fatted calf,” Sir Alexander declared with a grand sweep of his hand. “The prodigal son has returned.”

“Let us make merry and rejoice,” the vicar quoted from Scripture, “for this brother of yours was dead and has begun to live, and was lost and has been found.”

“Amen!” the duke pronounced, as if he were God Himself.

As Ruel watched the dismissed housemaid slip away, three things occurred to him at once.

First, it occurred to him that in Christ’s parable of the prodigal son, the dutiful brother had in no wise welcomed home his wandering sibling. In fact, he had been jealous, angry, and resentful. Was Alex as pleased as he seemed at Ruel’s return? The turn of events meant Alex had lost the opportunity to be declared heir apparent. All the same, the younger man wore his usual carefree demeanor, and Ruel could not believe his brother had any hostile intent when he alluded to the parable.

Second, it occurred to him that Miss Webster did possess the most intriguing pair of golden brown eyes and the most luxurious mane of chestnut hair he had ever seen. She spoke with fire and wit, and she had shown not the slightest fear in declaring her utter dislike of him. Moreover, she was undoubtedly as talented in the creation of lace as she had asserted.

Finally, it occurred to Lord Blackthorne that he still held that panel of ethereal lace in his possession, and that Miss Webster had not given him her answer.

Three

“Whatever can you do?” Miss Prudence Watson whispered. “You cannot steal it back.”

Anne studied the shadows creeping across the moonlit ceiling above the narrow bed in the room she shared with Miss Watson. She knew she should count it a privilege to labor in such an elevated position as lady’s maid. While she enjoyed the spaciousness and warmth of her mistress’s quarters, the other servants slept in small rooms on the top floor of Slocombe House.

Having begun her work there as a housemaid, Anne had seen what that life offered. The rows of beds for the staff were filled with sleeping kitchenmaids, scullery maids, parlor maids, and maids-of-all-work. Dimly lit and musty, the rooms contained nothing more homelike than beds, trunks, hooks for dresses and aprons, washbasins, and chamber pots. Their thin, yellowed walls and bare wood floors contrasted sharply with the opulent lower levels of Slocombe House, which were outfitted with luxurious carpets, velvet draperies, gilt wallpapers, and cheery fireplaces. The poorly ventilated servants’ quarters stayed hot all summer and frigid all winter.

How dare she complain? Yet, in her tenure at Slocombe House, Anne had discovered she was never alone. At mealtimes, the kitchen staff dined together in the kitchen, the household staff ate in the servants’ hall, and the upper servants supped in the steward’s room. The remainder of her time was spent in tending to the needs of Prudence Watson. Anne bathed, dressed, read her Bible, and worked her lace in the company of the young woman. Even on the rare afternoon off, she was compelled by Miss Watson to attend church or to stroll the grounds with her. Though the two had become friends, the difference in their rank could never be denied. Anne could refuse Miss Watson nothing, and that included talking through the night if her mistress wished.

The tall clock in the corridor outside their room chimed the hour of three in the morning. In two more hours the bell would ring, young ladies would fly out of bed, scrub their faces, pull on dresses, aprons, and mobcaps, and scurry to their posts. Anne would be among them, though she had not been permitted to sleep for a moment.

“You are not actually thinking of stealing the lace from the marquess, are you?” Prudence asked, the note of hope in her voice heavily tinged with dread. “I know your father was among the Nottingham Luddites and upheld their creeds. What were they?”

“Determination. Free liberty.”

“Aye, and look what their determination to have freedom got them, Anne. Look what they received in return for all their sledgehammers and muskets.”

Sledgehammers and muskets.
Anne wondered if Prudence realized that at first, the Luddites had been a peaceful group—resorting to smashing machines only when their demands for reasonable compensation, acceptable work conditions, and quality control were refused. All that had changed three years ago with a particularly violent attack at a mill in Lancashire. A large body of Luddites, some said more than a thousand, had attacked the mill, which was defended by well-armed guards. Then the government got involved, and many, including Anne’s father, were convicted, imprisoned, some even hanged.

For generations—hundreds of years—the beautiful, handmade lace and stockings of Nottinghamshire had dominated the English market. But with the advent of machinery, Anne’s father had watched his beloved parishioners endure a drastic decrease in income and prestige. Most had been forced to submit to the regimented and cruel treatment of factory owners just to feed their families.

Prudence was speaking again. “One must know one’s place in the world. If you are a stockinger making seven shillings a week, you had better stay a stockinger, no matter how many machines the hosiers bring in. That is your place. Anne, your father may have preached that all people are the same in God’s eyes, but I am sorry to tell you he was wrong. There are royalty, nobility, merchants, and laborers. You cannot go from one to the other. I am a tradesman’s daughter, and both of my sisters are married to tradesmen. Our wealth and happy connections with Society’s elite cannot erase our low position among them. You are a housemaid, and your job is to serve the duke’s family. It has been God’s hand that put the two of us together again, for if I leave Slocombe, you will not be permitted to go with me.”

“You are right,” Anne said, though she was unsure how sad this turn of events might be.

“My point is that you are a maid, and you cannot go independently selling lace to Sir Alexander or stealing it from the marquess. You could be put in prison like your father . . . or worse.”

Anne rubbed her eyes and focused on the long windows. Where the curtains had been left open, moisture on the glass panes had traced fantastic curls that made her think of a dragon’s misty breath. She envisioned the lace she could design of that undulating, magical pattern of swirls and shadows. Of course, no one would purchase a piece of lace so imaginative. The aristocracy wanted their standard roses and bows, perhaps a fern or two, and if they were unusually daring, a cherub or an urn.

“Here is my advice,” Prudence said, offering her seventh new stratagem that night. Anne had counted them. “You should forget you ever made that lace panel. It was a foolhardy notion in the first place, thinking you could sell it to Sir Alexander. You are too much the dreamer, Anne. You have no practical sense.”

Anne wondered, as she often did, how lace would look dyed in all the colors of the rainbow. At the moment, blonde lace was becoming all the fashion, lavishly trimming dresses, caps, pelisses, and aprons. Only a woman with especially dry hands could make blonde lace. In the summer it must be worked in the out-of-doors, and in winter it could be worked only in special rooms built over cow houses, where the animals’ breath warmed the air. The smell in those rooms, as Anne well knew, was pungent, but the soot from any form of flame heat would damage the lace’s fine threads.

“This is what you should do, Anne,” Prudence said. It was her eighth attempt at dispensing advice. “You should start another piece of lace, this one more marketable, strewn with roses and lilies and such. In one or two years’ time, if you save your wages from your work for the duke’s family and add to it what you earn from your next lace, you should be able to go back to Nottingham and eventually pay an attorney to defend your father.”

One or two years. Anne thought of her father living night and day in the darkness of his small prison cell. How different from the snug parsonage with its quaint library, writing desk, and warm rugs. He had suffered from ill health for many years, and Anne feared he could not live much longer in the confines of a prison.

It was not his physical strength that would suffer so much as his spirit. Mr. Webster considered his books sustenance, his pen and inkstand friends, and his pulpit the very breath of life. His communion with God through prayer and Bible reading were foremost—followed by his determination to serve mankind. He viewed the Luddites and their war against machinery as a cause as noble as the great Crusades, and he was willing to give his life on their behalf. Without Anne to secure his release, he surely would.

She had made it her mission to free the man who had given her breath, taught her to love Christ, and provided the educa- tion she valued above all else. Yes, Anne was a Christian, and she did all in her power to honor God. But she had been given a mind and will and strength of her own. She had talent and ambition, and she intended to use it all on her father’s behalf. No man would stand in her way. The devil might try to waylay her, but he would not succeed.

“Here is what you should do,” Prudence whispered. Suggestion number nine. “You should go down to Tiverton with me for church tomorrow and then take the afternoon off to visit the new mill that Mr. Heathcoat has built. Though I dislike the prospect of losing you, perhaps you might ask for an interview with Mr. Heathcoat himself and show him what you can do with lace. If he has any sense at all, he must put you to work as a designer of embroidery patterns for the machine lace he is manufacturing.”

Anne turned her head and frowned at Miss Watson’s moonlit profile. “Machine lace?”

“Oh, it cannot be so bad, Anne. Without the embroidery stitched upon it by hand, it is nothing more than boring and tedious net. You must not feel so threatened.” In contrast to Anne’s straight nose, Miss Watson’s tilted upward at the tip, giving her a pert look—though lately Prudence had been anything but pert.

“You must be reasonable, Anne,” she continued. “You can remain on the staff here at Slocombe, or you can think of something else rational to do. It is not as though there are many choices.”

Anne stroked her fingertips across the hem of the sheet. “I could always be a marchioness.”

“There you go again. You will not be logical.”

Anne tugged the sheet up to her neck. She knew she needed to sleep, but every time she shut her eyes, she saw the Marquess of Blackthorne winding her lace around his finger and then stuffing it into his pocket. He had known its value at once. He also had recognized the significance of the lozenge, and he understood that the lace had no value to anyone but the Chouteau family. He wanted it for himself, the fiend.

Wicked man. Insufferable lout.

Clenching her fists, Anne fought the rising tide of helpless anger. He had trapped her. Stealing the lace from him would send her to prison. Begging for its return would be useless. Working another lace border in hopes of freeing her father would take far too long. And she could never betray his ideals by using her skills in the manufacture of machine lace.

“What about taking a husband?” Prudence asked. “The gamekeeper has made his intentions clear. I understand William Green is more than a little put out at your rejection. In spite of his jealous manner, he is not so bad, is he? You would have your own cottage, and you could send your wages to your family in Nottingham.”

Anne tilted her head to one side and eyed her friend. “And be subjected to the gamekeeper’s brutishness and vanity night and day? Miss Watson, now it is you who will not be reasonable.”

“Then look for a soldier to wed. I read in
The Tattler
that Napoleon has escaped from his island exile. Miss Pickworth predicts that England may go to war with France again. Can you imagine? Dreadful thought! Yet, why not make the most of it? As near as we are to France, Tiverton will be full of handsome officers in their regimentals. Soldiers earn solid pay, I should wager. You ought to look for a husband among them as soon as may be.”