Lace for Milady Read online

  Any reference to age is greeted with a sniff by Slack. She had passed the half century on her last birthday. Streaks of grey begin to lighten her black hair, but I hold the unspoken suspicion that as with many spin­sters, a ray of hope shines yet that she will meet and marry some dashing Prince Charming. It is foolish in the extreme, of course. At twenty-two I put aside all such thoughts and would have set on my caps except that they are a nuisance. Women are already so en­cumbered with camisoles and petticoats that any addi­tional item of clothing is to be eschewed.

  I paid no heed to Slack’s repeated remonstrances regarding the yellow lutestring and green silk but purchased the latest copy of La Belle Assemblée in town and selected two suitable patterns. Suitable to me, that is; Slack did not approve. She suggested that as it was obviously my intention to set up as the village flirt, I ought to hire a fashionable modiste to cut my gowns for me, and added sundry ill-natured hints re­garding decolletage and making sure the skirt hugged the hips tightly, and suggested vulgar coquelicot rib­bons for the green silk. So suitable for Christmas, she said.

  “I hope you pass swiftly through the delicate age you are at, Slack,” I told her, “for I find your conversation recently disagreeable in the extreme.”

  The yellow lutestring was cut high at the neck, as became one of my years, with a long sleeve and a full skirt that allowed a good walking pace. The green silk would have been similarly styled had Slack not enraged me with her ceaseless jibes. In retaliation, I had it cut low enough to expose more of my chest than had been formerly shown to the world, and did take in the waist and hips sufficiently to give an indication of my figure. In fact, when I stood before my mirror, I doubted I would have the nerve to appear in public in the outfit, and cursed Slack’s humour and my temper that had caused me to ruin a guinea’s worth of good material. It was quite dashing, but it was not me.

  Lady Inglewood raised her brows when I first called in the yellow striped, but as it caused George to evince more interest than formerly in me, she did not object verbally.

  I enjoyed those first few weeks at the Dower House. There was sufficient novelty in coming to a new place and making new friends, trimming up my home to a more stylish appearance and generally getting the lay of the land to keep me entertained. I had my walks along the beach that still amused me, and I had my carriage to drive me to town. I felt life could offer little more. But as August drew to a close and September came upon us, I began to perceive that the keening winds of winter would make my walks along the sea uncomfortable. It was then I took the decision to buy myself a mount. I had procured before coming to Sus­sex the team to pull my carriage, and had a small stable set up, so why not add a hack to it? I had always wanted to ride. My first attempt along this line led to a new acquaintance and several other items of interest, so I shall make it a new chapter.

  Slack is sitting across the room rattling the newspaper impatiently, which means she wants her tea and my company. Truth to tell, I find this writing business tedious enough that I could do with a cup of tea myself. I shall resume the chronicle tomorrow.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  When I read a book, I like to have an idea how my characters look. Not that I adhere slavishly to the author’s description—I usually give the hero black hair, whatever his creator decrees, and the heroine blond, but still one likes to have some general notion, and as I have mentioned Lady Ing, as Slack and I took to calling my aunt, several times, I shall essay my hand at a portrait. She is short but appears tall. I don’t know how she achieves it, a throwing back of her shoulders and tilting her chin up perhaps cause the eyes to travel upward. She has a truly hideous, brin­dled shade of hair, brownish-red turning to grey, that she wears in a complicated arrangement of loops and swirls. With this awful mop she chooses purple and bile green gowns—one colour at a time, that is, not a mixture. She has close-set dark eyes and a sharp nose not unlike Slack’s. Her voice is both nasal and strident, the unloveliest part of the woman. She walks with short, quick steps, jerky, unbecoming, and is not at all like my mama. All this unattractive appearance is forgotten when she gets atop her mount. As I have mentioned, she is an accomplished horsewoman, an accomplishment I admire but do not envy, as certain people have hinted. Having few close friends as yet, I approached my aunt on the subject of buying a mount. I felt the duty would devolve on George, and was willing to accept this.

  She surprised me, as she usually managed to do. “I’ll sell you Juliette,” she said at once. Juliette was her own mount, a high-bred mare, really very handsome, indeed, a bay. I had often seen the two of them going across the park or down the road, and when I thought of riding, I thought of myself riding something akin to Juliette.

  “What will you ride yourself?” I asked her.

  “I am reaching the age where I must give it up. I have a little twinge of pain in my elbows that is worse after riding.” She looked still young enough and spry enough to ride for ten years, but I did not question her. I presume she knew if her elbows ached.

  “Very well. What price do you want for her?”

  “One hundred and fifty pounds.”

  The speed of her answer caused me to wonder whether she hadn’t been considering this sale for some time. No need to include the negotiations that lowered the price to one hundred. I had decided that was my top price, and once she realized this the thing was as well as done. She got the better part of the fifty pounds out of me by adding an extra charge for saddle, blankets, curry brushes, and other objects, and I believe we were both satisfied with our bargain. As Juliette was no gift horse, I did not hesitate to look her thoroughly in the mouth, legs, chest, and eyes. I did not intend to repeat the dowsing I had taken on my house. I now required a riding habit but could not wait to try my skill, and went to the stable straight away to do so. With the help of a groom, a block of wood, and strong arms, I con­trived to get myself hoisted aloft.

  I am not chicken-hearted. No foolish fears of mice, heights, the dark or small spaces trouble me, but I confess that when first I looked down to the ground, I felt a quiver of apprehension. I grabbed the reins awkwardly, and they seemed but a poor means of holding myself on to the animal’s back. To ensure my seat, I put one hand in Juliette’s mane. She did not appear to object to this. In fact, I later was told that horses have little feeling in this area, and it is recommended to do this when learning to jump. This felt a little safer, and I let Juliette out of the stable. The ground ceased whirling under me after two slow walks around the garden, and I was emboldened to let her out a little. The groom informed me to give her a little kick with my heel to achieve this. I did so, and she walked faster but not dangerously fast. I have said my land was only two acres, but mean as she was, Lady Ing did not prohibit my walking in her park, and I assumed riding, too, would be permitted. The lands between our two houses were open, a meadow and a garden, whereas I required, or at least desired, the concealing privacy of a few trees for my first ride, so I went off into the spinney that did not belong to her. It belonged to the Duke of Clavering, my neighbour on the other side, and was a part of Belview, his estate. He had a reputation for liking his privacy very well, but as he was known to be in London, I had no fear of discovery.

  The ride proceeded satisfactorily. I had no illusion my performance rivalled that of Juliette’s former owner, but I did not fall off, and eventually even let go of her mane and held myself on by the reins alone. I am fairly athletic. I came to enjoy sitting so high in the saddle and was eager to try something more daring than a walk. I kicked Juliette’s side, a little harder than I had intended to, actually, and she broke into a trot. It was somewhat frightening. The smoothness of the walk was all disrupted, and I found myself bumping up and down. I grabbed her mane again, and as I lurched forward to do so, my heel inadvertently touched Juliette’s side once more. The silly animal—really, horses are the most stupid creatures, ten times dumber than a pig—thought I wished to go faster, and did so. I was positively flopping in the saddl
e now, and becoming quite frightened. Worse was soon to come. The saddle began slipping on me, slipping so that I was virtually hanging off Juliette’s left side. This unnerved the ani­mal, and she took to going faster and faster. I soon realized my best option was to fall off before I got trampled under her hooves, and let go, rolling in the damp earth of the spinney. I did not break any bones, fortunately, but I wrenched my left knee rather badly. It was my pride that was the more hurt, and I was thankful I had taken my first lesson and inevitable tumble in the privacy of the spinney.

  It soon dawned on me that my disgrace would not be kept to myself. Juliette, the perverse animal, did not stop. She kept on going, and I had a sinking sensation that where she would go eventually was back to her stall at Inglewood. I could hear her go forward, gallop­ing now. I was very relieved I had had the presence of mind to get off before she took into that wicked gallop. The hooves were thundering in the distance, then a shout rang out.

  “Ho, Julie—Whoa, Julie”—something of the sort. It was a man's voice. It seemed the Duke of Clavering’s game warden was in the spinney, and I was glad he would retrieve the animal for me before it bolted back to its former owner. The hooves fell silent and some indistinct words were said to Juliette, who whinnied playfully in reply. “Here! Bring her here!” I shouted, and tried to arise. My knee gave a sharp stab of pain, and I sank to the ground again. I was embarrassed to be found crouching there, but the man was only a game warden after all. In roughly two minutes he had fol­lowed the path and found me. He looked no better than a game warden should look. A large, brawny man outfitted in an indifferent blue jacket and buckskins. His hair was black and his face swarthy, the result of his outdoors occupation, I assumed. The eyes, too, were dark. The man might have been a gypsy.

  “Took a tumble, did you?” he asked, with a some­what superior smile on his face. He did not dismount, having no manners, but remained in his saddle, hold­ing Juliette’s reins.

  “Certainly not. I merely decided to dismount, for Juliette was going faster than I liked.”

  “Dismount? Ah, is that what the ladies call falling off a horse nowadays? Next time you wish to slacken the pace, I suggest you pull on the reins, slowly and evenly.” He smiled on me condescendingly from atop his horse.

  “Next time you discover a lady stretched out on the ground, I suggest you dismount and help her up instead of delivering a quite unnecessary lecture,” I replied tartly, and picked myself up with no help from the man. I took a pace toward Juliette; my knee buckled under me, and I half fell.

  That, finally, was sufficient to get him down from his animal. It was also sufficient to widen the grin on his face. “I’ll toss you up,” he offered, and went on to do precisely that.

  Before I knew what he was about, he had placed his two hands around my waist and lifted me from the ground as though I were an elf, and I weigh nearly nine stone. By making a wild lunge at mane and reins, I managed somehow to get on Juliette’s back. The trou­ble, or part of it, was immediately made clear. The saddle was buckled on so loosely that the lurching movement drew it around one hundred and eighty degrees when I pulled on the pommel, and I was once again on the ground, holding in my temper at this stupid man.

  “Thank you very much indeed!” I said, and arose, though my knee still ached.

  “I take it this is your maiden ride?” he enquired, grinning wider and wider till I feared his face would split.

  “As you so cleverly deduce, it is my maiden ride.”

  “Lesson number one: Always check that the girth is buckled on tightly. And while we are about it, lesson number two: Don’t clutch at the reins as though they were the handle of your reticule. They are held thus.” He reached to his own reins and wound them through his fingers in a quite complicated and uncomfortable-looking manner. "Their purpose is not to hold you on, but merely to direct the animal.”

  I feigned deafness, grabbing the reins. “I’ll bear it in mind,” I said, then began walking home. Not for fifty pounds would I have got on that animal’s back again in front of anyone.

  “If you don’t do it now, you never will,” he said, apparently reading my mind. "Here, let me tighten her girth for you. You can’t walk back all the way with that game leg.”

  “I am not a horse, sir. I do not have a game leg, or a swollen fetlock. I have wrenched my knee, and I shall walk home.”

  “Suit yourself,” he answered with the utmost indif­ference, then putting one toe in the stirrup, he threw the other leg over the horse’s back with the greatest of ease, and it was a huge beast, and a stallion at that, which seemed very vicious looking to me. He com­menced walking along after me. I turned and tried to be rid of him.

  “I don’t require an escort, thank you.”

  “You will require further assistance before you’ve gone much farther.”

  “I haven’t far to go."

  “You have over a mile.”

  I couldn’t believe it was so far till I had been walking—limping, really—ten minutes and still saw no end to the spinney. The man then got down and suggested rather forcefully that I try riding again. He tightened the beast’s saddle, and once again tossed me up. “I’ll hold her reins and walk if you’re afraid,” he offered.

  This offer was spurned, but I took care to keep Juliette’s pace to a strict walk, which was very uncom­fortable because it meant holding my feet well out from her sides. Before we had gone much farther, the back of the Dower House was visible over the thinning trees. I was never so glad to see a pile of rocks in my life.

  “I’ll see you in,” the man said when we got to the stable.

  “That is really not at all necessary.”

  “I want to talk to you,” he said, in an authoritative voice that I suddenly realized spoke in cultured ac­cents. I had been too upset before to remark it.

  “Who are you?” I asked, rather bluntly, I’m afraid.

  “Clavering. Your neighbour on the east.”

  “The Duke of Clavering?” I asked, quite simply as­tonished. No elegance, no manners—a gypsy.

  “At your service, whenever you care to take a tum­ble, ma’am,” he answered, and offered me his arm.

  “I thought you were in London.”

  “I was. I returned. Shall we go?”

  I couldn’t think of a sensible word to say, so said nothing. Immediately we were in, I went to my room to clean up, asking Slack to get His Grace a glass of wine. When I returned belowstairs fifteen minutes later, he sat making himself quite at home with Slack. She, however, is never completely at home with any male over eight or ten, and was looking grim.

  “What was it you wished to speak to me about?” I asked a little sharply. In the normal way I would have been friendlier with a neighbour, but having shown myself in so poor a light, I was angry.

  “About Seaview,” he replied, equally bluntly.

  “And what might Seaview be?” I asked.

  “It’s here. The Dower House,” Slack informed me.

  “Oh, you mean it already has a name. I had rather looked forward to naming it myself. I had thought of Hillcrest, for we are at the crest of the hill, you know.”

  “Your neighbour a mile down the road had the same original notion. McCurdys call their place Hillcrest. The hill actually crests there. You have a view of the sea; we called it Seaview.”

  “We?” I asked, with perhaps a touch of condescen­sion, or so Slack told me later. Actually “as jealous as a cat of her new-born litter” is the simile she used.

  “It was named by my great grandfather, since he built it,” Clavering informed me, in much the same possessive tone.

  Lady Ing ought to have told me this. The impression given by her was that it was a part of the original Inglewood holding. I had wondered at the time that it was in her power to sell it, and not a word had she said of all this. Of course she had also implied it was three or four hundred years old, and that had proven untrue. So it was some Clavering, unless the man facing me lied, who had inscribed the
telltale date on that key­stone.

  “I see. I hadn’t realized that,” I answered, pretending no more than a decent modicum of interest.

  “Did Lady Inglewood not tell you so when she sold you the place?”

  “No, she did not consider it of sufficient importance apparently.”

  “But she told you about the leased land?”

  This was the manner in which I made the horren­dous discovery about my precious Gothic mansion. I have given a hint of double-dealing and treachery on my aunt’s part. This is it. My pen shakes in anger yet to write it. “What leased land?” I asked. Something in his triumphant, gloating expression made me expect trouble ahead.

  “The land on which Seaview stands,” he answered, relishing his victory.

  “No, no, I bought the land outright from her. It is a very small area, of course, only a couple of acres, but it is not leased.”

  “It was not hers to sell.”

  I was on my feet, and soon falling awkwardly to my chair again, for the twisted knee really hurt quite abominably. “What do you mean? What are you telling me?” I demanded, incredulous.

  “What I can scarcely believe you do not know al­ready. Seaview stands on land leased from me.”

  “But—but I don’t understand. How can this be? She couldn’t sell me a house without land for it to stand on. It is ridiculous. I never heard of such a thing in my life. Slack, get the papers, the ownership papers.”

  Slack was nearly as upset as I was myself, and bustled from the room in a swirl of black skirts. Slack never wore a thing but black.

  While awaiting her return, I asked the Duke, “Just how did such a state of affairs come about? How did the Inglewoods come to build on your...“ Then I stopped. “But you said your ancestors built the place. How does it come to be out of your hands?”