Treacherous Temptations(6)

Mary’s hand flew to her hair and the corkscrew ringlets that failed miserably to be contained, even in a tightly plaited bun. A glance in the mirror over the mantle confirmed that she more resembled a servant than the mistress of the manor. Following Jenny’s example, Mary bustled up the stairs in vain hope of making herself presentable to whoever had come to call.

With increasing panic, Mary ripped pins from her hair and yanked at her laces, somehow managing to disrobe down to her shift and stays before Jenny fluttered in with a giggle.

“Lackaday miss! That stiff ol’ Wilkins was tripping all over hisself.”

“Just who is it, Jenny? And why have they come?”

“Beg pardon, miss!” Jenny bobbed with a nervous titter. “I was to give you this.” She handed her mistress a gold embossed calling card. “Plum forgot meself wi’ all the commotion.”

“The Countess of Blanchard?” Mary studied the card in consternation while Jenny flung open the wardrobe doors, snatching out the half-dozen dresses inside, and tossing them onto the bed. Jenny then set to work pulling down her untidy bun. “Don’t fret, miss. It needs only a bit of ribbon and a few more pins.”

Mary stared in dismay at her pitiful selection. For the past three years, mostly spent attending her ailing father, she had given little heed to her appearance. Outside of two half-mourning gowns in the unbecoming shades of lavender and dove grey, she had but one Sunday mantua. It too, was terribly outmoded.

“Might I suggest the lavender, miss?” Jenny said. “’Tis not so bad with your hair and eyes, and mayhap we can add a lace kerchief to spruce it up a bit?”

Ten minutes later, with her hair repaired and dressed in her best gown, Mary descended the stairs with a steadying hold on the banister to support her shaking knees.

…

Upon alighting from the stifling confines of her traveling coach, Lady Barbara Blanchard smoothed the creases from her skirts and inhaled tentatively of the country air. She wrinkled her delicate nose, as if testing the quality of it, for the fresh fragrance, redolent of spring grass and honeysuckle, was a strange and exotic mix to a London dweller accustomed to the ubiquitous coal and inescapable stench of the Thames.

She next cast a disparaging eye over the manor house of Welham Grove. She had expected something far grander in scale than this common three story brick dwelling that seemed to lack any architectural improvements in the last half-century. Perhaps the claims of the girl’s wealth were exaggerated? But then again, in the years as his mistress, Sir Richard had never given her any reason to doubt his word.

Moreover, he had provided a blank check to prepare the chit for her launch in society, an offer Barbara had taken full advantage of—three carriages’ worth, to be precise. While she alone occupied the first, protected by four outriders, the second contained her personal maid, and a London mantua-maker accompanied by two sempstresses. The third vehicle in the caravan accommodated several more menials and the many trunks that would be required to sustain her during a duration she could only hope would be brief.

Ignoring the hustle and bustle of her entourage attending the horses, the carriages, and unloading of baggage, Lady Blanchard turned toward the house and with a mere lift of her delicately shaped brow, she commanded her footman to rap at the door.

…

Mary perched on the window seat in the drawing room with the same dog-eared volume of Dean Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels she’d been engrossed in before Jenny had shattered her peace. This time, however, Mary’s eyes were blind to the print, as she alternated between idle page turnings, nail biting, and stolen glances at the door.

It wasn’t as if she’d never received an unexpected guest. Indeed, the vicar’s wife had developed an annoyingly frequent habit of just popping by, but a coach-and-six carrying a countess and full retinue, was quite beyond Mary’s ken.

Unable to suppress the compulsion, Mary peered through a crack in the drapes as the first carriage came to a halt under the portico. A footman in red and black satin livery bounded down from his seat beside the coachman to lower the step and open the door. When he reached into the carriage to assist its owner, she caught a glimpse of a white gloved hand, a woman’s hand, followed by an entire velvet-clad arm. Her breath caught when out ducked a richly plumed bonnet, adorning the head of the most elegant creature Mary had ever seen.

When the lady stepped back to survey the house, Mary shrank from the window with a horrified gasp that she might have been caught spying.

“Have you ever seen such a fine lady?” Jenny asked.

Mary confessed she had not.

Moments later the door opened to Wilkins’ stuttering stentorian announcement of the Countess of Blanchard, followed by a grand and flowing entrance that stole Mary’s breath. Although splendid to behold at a distance, in proximity Lady Blanchard beggared all description.

She wore a midnight-blue velvet traveling suit, richly adorned at the elbows with elaborate engageantes in multiple layers of point d’Bruxelles. In striking contrast to her sky-blue eyes and alabaster skin was her shining raven black hair. The countess advanced into the room as if she commanded it, casting an arch look at Mary and then sweeping the room as if seeking other occupants to admire her.

Mary’s apprehension grew when the lady’s gaze settled upon her with a frown. “You are Miss Mary Elizabeth Edwardes?”

Recalled to decorum, Mary dipped into a deep curtsey that she prayed would pass muster. “Yes, my lady. But I am usually called Molly.”