The Changeling Bride (25 page)

Thomas, the butler, stepped into the room as she was perusing the assortment of dishes on the sideboard. He cleared his throat with a polite little movement of phlegm before speaking. “Lady Allsbrook?”

She turned, a pastry in her fingers. “Ah, Thomas! Good morning. What’s going on? Why is everyone rushing about?”

“I believe his lordship would like to discuss that with you in his office, when you find it convenient.”

Curiosity battled with hunger. Curiosity won. She piled pastries and a few strips of bacon on a plate, donated an extra strip to Tatiana’s eager mouth, poured herself a glass of sour orange juice, and carried the lot past Thomas, whose eye twitched involuntarily at the sight of her carrying her breakfast down the hall.

She stopped a few feet down the hall, suddenly remembering. “Oh, and Thomas?”

“Yes, milady?”

“Would you be the one to ask, if I wanted to purchase several new sea sponges? Or do I have to go through the steward?”

“His lordship has already put in the request, milady. It will require a few days, to purchase the sponges in Southampton, if that is acceptable?”

“Yes, quite. No hurry.”

“Milady?”

“Yes?”

“If I might have someone carry your breakfast for you?”

She looked down at the food in her hands. An image came to mind, a footman with a silver tray and her orange juice, another footman with a tray and her plate, and then
herself, rabbity feathers bobbing, followed by a prancing Tatiana licking up whatever crumbs fell on the floor, the sweeper at the end of the parade.

“Never mind. I’ll just eat the scone.” She went back into the breakfast room, put her plate on the table, surreptitiously dropped the rest of her bacon to Tatiana, grabbed a scone off her plate, and quickly left the room, her ears pink under Thomas’s distressed gaze.

The sound of male voices in animated conversation reached her when she was still several feet from Henry’s office, and she paused, the half-consumed scone partway to her mouth. She brushed at the crumbs on her bodice, and then cautiously covered the remaining ground and peeked her head around the door just as the voices erupted into guffaws of laughter.

A small crowd of men met her view, their coats ranging from deep teal velvet to serviceable black wool. They wore their hair powdered white, tied in back, and all wore white stockings beneath their knee breeches. Henry’s short, rich black hair stood out among them, and she cocked her head at the realization that he had rebellious tendencies of his own toward fashion.

The movement of her ostrich plumes drew his eye, and before she could escape the intimidating gathering, he had stood and called her name.

“Eleanor, there you are! Please come in. There are some people here I would like you to meet.”

The men immediately turned to see to whom Henry was speaking, and upon seeing her each stood.

Elle took a step back, shy under their sudden scrutiny. She wished she’d left the scone in the breakfast parlor. She put the hand holding it behind her back. A warm, moist muzzle skimmed her fingers, and she released the scone into Tatiana’s waiting mouth.

She gave Henry a tremulous smile, avoiding the eyes of the men, and stepped farther into the room as Henry
came around the desk to meet her. He took her left hand in his own and turned to his companions.

“Eleanor, I would like you to meet my good friend and business partner, Richard Ralston, viscount Atherton.” The man in the teal velvet stepped forward. “Richard, my wife, Eleanor, the countess of Allsbrook.” The viscount had unusual eyes, honey-colored in the center, that looked into hers with deep interest as he bent over her right hand, not quite touching the back with his lips.

“Milady,” he murmured.

He was awfully good-looking, she couldn’t help but notice, but there was also something smooth about him that suggested he wasn’t entirely honorable in his dealings with women. She unconsciously leaned a little closer to Henry, as if seeking protection at his trustworthy side.

The viscount released her hand and stood aside as the other introductions were made. The other men were Lawrence Peabody, “A type of waterworks engineer, landscaper, and builder-architect,” Henry explained, and Cyril Tey, “My steward.” It was not such a crowd as she had first thought. The men all apparently knew one another, based on their relaxed air of familiarity.

Elle tried to think of something witty and welcoming to say, and failed utterly. Tatiana, never shy, pranced past her and went to inspect the men. She brushed against Mr. Peabody’s black breeches, leaving a coating of white hair, then went and sniffed Viscount Atherton’s crotch. He gently pushed her nose away, and she sat, panting up at him. When the man did no more than look at her, she scratched his velvet-covered leg.

“She wants you to pet her,” Elle explained weakly, mortified at Tatiana’s display of bad manners. She felt out of place enough as it was in this room filled with men from the past.

“Mmm, yes,” the viscount said, and reached out gingerly with the tips of his fingers to scratch at the top of her head.

Henry excused them from the men and led her out into the hall. He called Tatiana, who had no trouble tearing herself away from the viscount’s reluctant attentions. Elle could hear the male voices resume their conversation as soon as the door shut, and she wondered if she were the topic of their discussion, and what poor impression she had made on these friends of Henry’s.

“Viscount Atherton and Mr. Peabody will be joining us for dinner this evening. They are both old friends of mine and have been looking forward to meeting my wife.” He raised an eyebrow at her. “You will not be having any headaches today, will you?”

“Not to worry, I’ll be on my best behavior, just as you were last night.”

“I am reassured,” he said, and there was a trace of humor in his voice. He continued in a more businesslike tone. “I also wanted to tell you that the tailor and seamstress have arrived. They are going to make the new livery and clothes for the servants, and I thought you might like to oversee their efforts, help choose the fabrics and styles and so forth.”

“Sure, why not?”

“Your enthusiasm warms me.”

“No, really. I’d like to have something to do with my time. Is there anything else? I mean, it won’t take that long to choose uniforms, I don’t think.”

He glanced at the closed door, behind which the voices were now raised in heated argument. “If it is a duty you feel capable of handling, I would appreciate if you would oversee the redecorating of the house. And if there is anything in particular that you had in mind for the gardens, Mr. Peabody will be designing a new layout along with his other work here and would take your ideas into consideration.”

“In other words, you’d like to be free to focus on the structural improvements to Brookhaven and wish to leave
the aesthetic, less-important decisions to me.” She saw his eyes go to her feathered turban.

“Subject to my approval, of course. There are certain traditions of style I want to keep alive in this house, traditions you might not be aware of . . .”

“You think I have bad taste?”

“No, it is not that. It is just that I have certain ideas of how I would like the house—” He cut himself off at her muffled snort of disbelief.

“Be honest, Henry. You’re afraid your house will end up a mess if I’m given free rein.” When he couldn’t come up with an immediate reply, the devil in her came to life. She knew she had poor fashion sense and wouldn’t trust herself to decorate her own home.

“I would of course feel much more as if I belonged here if I could fully take on the responsibilities of my station, now that we have reached an agreement on, er, that other topic,” she said in utmost seriousness. “Do other countesses ask their husbands for approval before choosing an upholstery pattern? Do they ask permission to have a bed of roses planted? I think not. And what will the staff think of me, if every time I make a decision, I have to amend it with, ‘If his lordship approves, as I haven’t the wit to decide for myself?’ What type of marriage can we have, if you cannot trust me to perform my most basic duties?” She stared up at him, trying to maintain an air of wounded innocence and sincerity.

A long moment stretched between them, and beneath his composed mask, she could detect currents of emotion. Anxiety, mostly, which faded into a sort of hopeless acceptance. “Very well, then,” he said abruptly, “I leave the house and grounds to you.” He sketched her a short bow and disappeared back into his office.

She stared at the empty space where he had been standing. Little as she knew him, one thing she already understood was that Brookhaven was holy ground to
Henry. And yet, he had chosen to trust her with it. She, Elle, the one who couldn’t dance or ride sidesaddle and who got lost in the woods chasing fairies.

She could not now let him down. It wasn’t her own pride or desire to prove herself that she cared about; indeed, arranging furniture seemed a hollow way to show one’s worth. It was that she was responsible for that which Henry held dear to his heart.

Feeling somewhat burdened by the task she had set herself, she flagged down a passing maid and had her lead her to where the tailor and seamstress had set up shop. If she had bad taste herself, she was going to have to rely heavily on the artistic sense of the professionals.

It was to be such a Herculean labor, this regarbing of the old and new employees of the house and grounds, that a long gallery room on an upper floor had been given over to the task. Long windows lined one side of the room, providing quantities of sunlight that would make the task of sewing easier.

Old worktables were being set up at intervals, and on one long one against the wall, there were bolt after bolt of fabrics. Even as she watched, young men came in and deposited several more on the growing pile. As she observed the activities, it became apparent that there were two factions controlling opposite ends of the room. The end closest to her was under the supervisory eye of a small, wiry man that she took to be the tailor. At the other end, a young woman with flyaway platinum hair escaping from her cotton cap was overseeing the placing of a screen and the arrangement of several large portfolios, with sheets of paper escaping from their edges. The dress she wore had a high waist and was less structured than those of her companions.

The wiry little man noticed her first and straightened up. “Lady Allsbrook!” he exclaimed and bowed sharply. “Casper White, tailor, at your service.”

“Who is the young woman over there?” she asked, indicating the busy blonde.

Mr. White followed her pointing finger. “Ah, now
she
is a girl who knows what she is about, when she cares to. That is my daughter, Charlotte. She will be taking care of the women’s clothes, milady. Charlotte!” he hollered across the room. “Come here, and be quick about it.”

The young woman flashed a look of irritation at her father but obeyed quickly enough when her eye lit on Elle. She threaded her way through the workers and tables, and dipped a low curtsy. Her eyes were a lovely gray-green, set off by the sprigs of light green in the print of the dress she wore. Her face was otherwise colorless, but the eyes made up for the lack. They were filled with intelligence and life, and bespoke a creative mind beneath the mob cap and wispy hair.

“Charlotte, is it? Come, show me what you have in mind for the women,” Elle said, threading her arm through that of the startled young seamstress and leading her away from her father. Mr. White was undoubtedly in charge of all this and competent at his work, but Charlotte’s empire-style dress had caught Elle’s eye.

The drawings Charlotte showed her were beautifully executed, and the dresses themselves lovely and simple. They were in the style with which Elle had become familiar: tight bodice, narrow sleeves, a long skirt given only slight fullness by the petticoats or bum roll underneath.

“You obviously have talent for your work,” Elle complimented the young woman, who stared somewhat lifelessly at her own drawings. “I was wondering, though . . . do you perhaps have some designs that are a little more innovative?”

Charlotte flashed a sidelong glance at her, then glared across the room at her father. “Innovative in what manner, milady?”

“Oh, I don’t really know. Designs that are a little more distinctive, a little more original?”

“These do not suit, milady?”

“I like what you’re wearing. Did you design it yourself?”

“I design all my own clothes.” Charlotte’s eyes were beginning to spark. “Father does not approve, of course. He would like it if we all still wore panniers, for God’s sake, milady.”

“Do you wear a corset under that?”

She didn’t seem embarrassed by the question. “Father would truly whip me if I did not.”

“Mmm.” Elle was disappointed.

“I have my personal designs here, if you would like to see them, milady?” she offered tentatively, the hope fairly vibrating in her voice, her hand resting lightly on a battered portfolio off to the side.

“I would like that very much.”

She and Charlotte quickly became so caught up in discussions of dresses and fabrics, undergarments and shoes, that they decided to adjourn to a more private room where tea and food could be brought in as they sat and conspired. Elle had complete respect for Charlotte’s sense of style and her knowledge of fabrics and construction, and Charlotte was fascinated by Elle’s real concern for comfort and her ideas on proper undergarments. Hours went by, and they were not even half finished when Marianne appeared, reminding her that she needed to change for dinner.

With great reluctance she set aside the drawing on her lap and rose. “We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, to continue?”

“I will look forward to it, milady.”

When she had her new clothes, Elle decided, she was going to have a corset-burning party.

Elle suffered housewifely shame over the quality of the meal served at dinner and vowed to talk to Mr. Tey, who apparently did the hiring. A proper chef must be found and Abigail liberated from the kitchen before they all expired of indigestion.

Mr. Peabody, the architect-engineer, seemed quietly, inexplicably fascinated by her throughout the meal, contributing little to the conversation. He had a freckled face, wide nose, fine bones, and hazel eyes that watched her whenever he was not watching his plate.