Anne Barbour (11 page)

She found that she was forced to revise her earlier, unfavorable opinion of young Amanda’s mother. Serena was an irritating flea-brained dingbat, but she was possessed of a basic kindness, and truly did seem to have her daughter’s interest at heart. The fact that what would be good for her daughter varied so markedly with Amanda’s idea on the subject was scarcely Serena’s fault.

The woman’s major flaw was her absolute, mindless submission to Jeremiah. Amanda was aware that her behavior was the norm for her time, but, thought Amanda resolutely, for however long she was to remain in this time period, she would make it one of her first priorities to liberate Serena Bridge, no matter that she was only an illusion. She had already begun her campaign by purchasing for Serena a copy of Byron’s
The Bride of Abydos,
which, she knew, from an earlier conversation with Jeremiah, to be on the list of things forbidden to Serena. When she had told Ash of this, he had laughed and suggested she offer the book to Serena as a gift from himself.

“For surely,” he said, the merest twinkle at the back of his eyes, “your estimable papa can have no objection to a gift from his soon-to-be son-in-law.”

Her days were full. Social activities absorbed an astonishing amount of time, with visits during the day, rides in the park in the afternoon, and small parties at night. Despite the general inanity of the conversations obtained at these functions, Amanda found that she was enjoying herself. She was able, with Hutchings’ continued help, to avoid most of the pitfalls caused by her ignorance of young Amanda’s past.

She was even, after a foray into the kitchen that left the lower staff astonished and not a little discomfited, able to teach Hutchings how to make a fairly decent cup of cocoa. This was not as easy as it might have been, because, apparently, cocoa had not been created yet, and drinking chocolate was concocted by breaking chunks of solid, very bitter chocolate from a large bar, to be ground in a chocolate mill. This accomplished, Amanda instructed Hutchings to melt the resulting granules in a small quantity of hot water. She added what Hutchings declared an inordinate amount of sugar to the mix and poured in a generous dollop of milk. The finished product was, if Amanda said so herself, quite tasty, particularly when Hutchings added a pinch of crushed vanilla bean.

“Next week,” promised Amanda grandly, “we’ll whip up a batch of fudge.”

“That will be nice, miss,” replied Hutchings expressionlessly.

As the days passed, she was uncomfortably aware that the realism of her stay in Regency London seemed to increase. Some of her experiences surely came from the depths of the research she had done for various papers, but she was sure she had never considered the everyday discomforts of life in the early nineteenth century. The air pollution, from thousands of coal fires, was much worse than anything she had experienced in her own time. And when, she wondered dismally, would the invention of toilet paper come to pass?

Thus, the days slid by until one morning, Serena announced to Amanda just after breakfast, “No walks in the Park for you today, missy. You will stay home, if you please, and rest.” At Amanda’s blank look, she continued in some indignation, “Don’t tell me you have forgotten about the Marchford ball? It is tonight, and I want you to look your best.”

Amanda knew a moment of panic, for this would be her first large formal occasion. She forced herself to relax. She had managed her masquerade with relative ease, so far. Not one of young Amanda’s acquaintances suspected there was anything wrong with her beyond a small disruption of memory due to a bump on the head. The ball, she assured herself, would be a piece of cake.

In this assumption, she was to be proved very much mistaken.

Chapter Eight

In preparation for the evening’s festivities, Hutchings took more time than usual over her ministrations, and when the little maid had finished, Amanda gazed at herself for some moments in the mirror. She could hardly believe her eyes. Could this apparition truly be Amanda McGovern, plain of face and twisted of body? She was gowned in a robe of celestial blue satin, over which floated a tunic of silver net. About her slender throat lay a web of sapphires that exactly matched her eyes. Her golden hair was gathered in an artful knot atop her head, circled by a tiny fragile tiara of the same stones. Airy tendrils escaped to curl deliciously about her classic features. Dear God, Amanda breathed, she’d never before fully appreciated the concept of “drop dead gorgeous.”

She turned to her maid. “You’ve really outdone yourself, tonight. Thank you, Hutchings.”

“It’s a pleasure to have the dressing of a beautiful lady like you, miss,” replied the maid with a little grin. “You’re a credit to me.”

Amanda’s responding smile was a little apologetic. “I hope Papa pays you well to turn me out in such style. Good God, you’re at my beck and call every waking moment of your day. Don’t you ever get some time for yourself?”

“Why yes, miss,” replied Hutchings in surprise. “I have every Thursday afternoon off, and all the staff is allowed time to go to church on Sundays. A good Christian household, this is. And I’m almost the highest paid servant in the place,” she added pertly. “Twelve pounds a year, your papa pays me, and that includes my meals and a room of my own.”

“My God,” breathed Amanda. “That’s less than twenty dollars!”

“I don’t know about that, miss, but it’s more than many a lady’s maid earns, and it does me fine. Plus, with the gowns you give me—the ones you don’t wear anymore—I don’t have to pay anything for clothes—except my working things, of course.”

Amanda gazed at her in disbelief, but said nothing, and after a moment, at Hutchings’ lifted brows, raised her hand in a gesture of dismissal. When the maid had whisked herself out of the room, Amanda sat for some moments with her chin in her hand. Her gaze drifted again to the image in the mirror—the flashing jewelry around her neck and in her hair. She glanced at the box on her dressing table overflowing with more hideously expensive baubles, all bought for Jeremiah Bridge’s daughter for his own greater glory. All the while, how many thousands clung, like Hutchings, to the bare edge of survival? Amanda knew an urge to dash into the streets, crying out against this horrendous inequity. The twentieth century had its problems, but at least some progress had been made against such wickedness.

Amanda glanced at the little clock that stood on her bedside table. Lord Ashindon would be arriving any minute. Why had he absented himself from the Bridge household for lo, these many days? Had his meager supply of ardor cooled so soon? Was he regretting his proposal? It had surely been given grudgingly enough. Odd, she wouldn’t have pegged the earl as a fortune hunter. A man who wore his pride and arrogance like a suit of ceremonial armor scarcely seemed the type to grovel at a rich man’s feet for the hand of his daughter.

She shrugged. None of it really made any difference, after all. Suppressing the flutter of excitement mixed with panic that made itself felt in the pit of her stomach, she ran a hand over her blue satin skirts and stepped out into the corridor.

As it happened, she began her descent of the stairs just as Ash was admitted to the house. Handing his outer coat, hat, and gloves to Goodbody, the butler, he turned to watch her approach down the curving staircase. A guilty pleasure flooded through her as his eyes widened.

“You are looking exceptionally lovely tonight, Miss Bridge.” He brushed her gloved fingertips with his lips. “I shall be the most envied man at the festivities. Perhaps,” he added, drawing a small packet wrapped in tissue paper from his waistcoat pocket, “you will deign to carry this.”

Carefully unwrapping the little parcel, Amanda gasped in delight as she drew out a fan. It was made of silk, stretched over slender, carved ribs of ivory and delicately embellished with medallions depicting mythological scenes.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said simply. “It is lovely.”

And you’re looking pretty fantastic yourself, she added to herself. Lord Ashindon in coat and pantaloons was an impressive sight, but in evening dress he was nothing short of magnificent. He wore satin breeches that molded themselves admirably to his muscular thighs. A coat of dark silk afforded a glimpse of embroidered waistcoat and nestled in his intricately tied cravat, a single diamond winked in the candlelight.

“I shall ask immediately that you save me the permitted two dances. I would ask for more, but there is no point in affording speculation for the gabble-mongers until your mama makes our declaration public.”

“Oh!” Amanda nearly dropped the fan. “I do not dance—that is ...” Her laughter came faint and high-pitched. “I seem to have forgotten how.”

“Indeed,” said the earl imperturbably. “You have no knowledge of cotillion—or quadrille? How about the waltz?”

“Oh, yes, I can waltz.”

Ash’s brows shot up. “Now that is peculiar. The workings of the human mind are indeed inscrutable, are they not, for one to forget the steps to one kind of dance, but not another.”

His expression held nothing but polite interest, but Amanda felt her back stiffen.

“You implied at our last meeting, my lord, that I was pretending a loss of memory, but I thought you must have discarded that ludicrous misapprehension by now.” Lord, she thought, startled, she was beginning to sound like something from a Jane Austen novel. “However, if you—”

“Not at all, Miss Bridge. You are too quick to take me up. I was merely voicing a certain curiosity. You shall find me at your side when the first waltz is struck.”

“My lord, you are here!” Serena Bridge bustled into the hall from the back of the house. “I did not hear you arrive. Amanda, what can you be thinking of to let his lordship stand about like this.” She grasped the earl’s arm and propelled him purposefully into the drawing room. “Mr. Bridge will join us in a moment. He is in his study at present—or no, here he is now.”

Jeremiah Bridge, garbed in evening dress, provided a marked contrast to Ash. In breeches and coat, the man looked as though he were being physically restrained in a prison of cloth, and that if he were to breathe deeply, coat, breeches, waistcoat, and cravat would fly apart in all directions. Disregarding his wife and daughter, he advanced, smiling on the earl.

“Ah, my lord,” he said with a wolfish smile of gratification. “Good of you to join us tonight.” Leading Ash into the drawing room and followed dutifully by his wife and daughter, he gestured expansively to a settee covered in amber satin and with his own hands poured a glass of sherry for himself and his guest. Seating himself in a chair opposite, he launched into a lengthy explanation of the press of business that had kept him occupied until late in the afternoon.

“Ugly business, this advance of Napoleon,” he concluded. “Got the market stirred up as though someone had let a hive of bees loose.”

Amanda pricked up her ears. Let’s see, if this was April of 1815, the Corsican Monster must have escaped from Elba only a few weeks ago. He must be marching on Paris right about now.

“Where is Wellington?” she asked interestedly. “If I remember rightly, he must be in Brussels.”

Both men swung toward her as though she had just requested directions to the nearest bawdy house. Jeremiah’s formidable brows beetled in astonished disapproval.

“What?” he asked in his customary bellow.

Amanda began to repeat her words, but was interrupted by Serena.

“Goodness, Amanda, dearest, this is certainly not a topic for a well-bred young lady.” She pinched her daughter’s arm and shot her a meaningful glance.

“You mean,” Amanda snapped, “young English ladies aren’t supposed to know that young English men are dying in a foreign land for their country?”

“Amanda!” Serena was close to tears. She shot an anguished glance at Ash, who was staring intently at his betrothed. “You must forgive her, my lord. She is still sadly discomposed by her— her recent ordeal.”

Ash said nothing, but his eyes remained on Amanda as Serena hastily turned the conversation to a more innocuous subject.

At the table, Amanda, of course, was seated next to Ash, who held the place of honor to Jeremiah’s right. She could think of little to say to him and addressed herself vigorously to the serving of indeterminate meat set before her.

“What is that?” she asked in some
puzzlement.

“Why, it’s calves’ brains, dear, made up in the Florentine style, just the way you like them.”

Amanda stared dubiously at her plate. “Really? Do you—we— have this stuff often?”

Jeremiah sent her an uneasy glance. “It’s good English fare,” he barked. “Now, let’s hear no more about it.” He swung to Ash and said hastily, “By the by, did you sink any funds in the new gas works, as I told you to do? Made a tidy profit on that today.”

“Yes, I did,” Ash replied easily, but Amanda noticed that his grip tightened on his fork.

“Ah,” said Jeremiah, his satisfaction apparent, “how much did you invest?”

Ash’s mouth tightened and the fingers holding his fork turned white. His tone was casual, however, as he replied, “Surely, sir, this subject cannot be of any interest to the ladies.” He turned to Serena. “I wonder if you have read the copy of
The Bride of Abydos
that I procured for you the other day, ma’am.”

Amanda eyed him curiously. Though he frequently allowed his contempt for Jeremiah to burst through his mask of indifference, Ash was unfailingly courteous to Serena. Was he genuinely kind? she wondered, or was it that his unbending pride demanded a rigid standard of behavior toward those who had no defense against rudeness.

Serena’s gaze flew immediately to her husband, and she shifted in her chair agitatedly. “Oh! Yes—that is, no. You see—”

“Bride? Abydos?” Jeremiah bellowed. “Isn’t that some of Byron’s rubbish?” He glared down the table at his wife. “Didn’t
I tell you I wouldn’t have any of his stuff in the house?”

“Oh, yes, dearest.” To Amanda’s disgust, she observed that Serena was very nearly in tears. “But, all the world reads his work, and—”

“Have you read the poem—Papa?” asked Amanda innocently.