Great Historical Novels (24 page)

The back window overlooked a small overgrown courtyard, and against the far wall was a dresser with a mottled mirror and several drawers. In these, Rhia had started to store pots
and jars of coloured powders and sable brushes of every thickness. In the centre of the floor was a long trestle table covered partly with bolts of cloth. But in one corner was her red book, and a few squares of card dabbed with the velvety pinks and rich, ruby reds of the damask rose. The designs were firmly a secondary occupation during opening hours at the emporium, but she was determined that she would soon have a collection to present Mr Montgomery with, something to rival anything from Paris. She usually came in early or stayed late so that she had uninterrupted time to work. Today, though, she would be leaving early for Isabella Montgomery’s birthday tea. Rhia wasn’t particularly looking forward to it, and Grace hadn’t been invited. Isabella’s tea party seemed just another reason for Grace to feel resentful. Rhia looked at the old ship’s clock above the dresser. It was almost time to leave.

She untied her apron and tidied her hair in the mirror, thinking about her mother’s cautionary words. She had already taken to stowing guineas in a purse in the bottom of her portmanteau. She was not about to entrust anyone with her precious silver, not after the conversation with Dillon in the Red Lion. Having an income gave her unexpected pleasure. Suddenly, anything was possible.

She was becoming more and more convinced that money was somehow at the root of Ryan’s death, whether he had been unprincipled or not. But how could he have lost money if he was trading in opium? Ryan had been a risk-taker, certainly, but would never be described as rash. No doubt he had overextended himself by investing in the joint venture. Mr Dillon presumably knew something about it, since he appeared to know something about most things. Rhia had neither seen nor heard from him since Christmas. He had no reason to call, other than to see Laurence, and Laurence had sailed to New
York more than two weeks ago. The house was quiet without him and Antonia was busier than ever with her forthcoming shipment to India.

Grace was buffing her nails and reading
Sylvia’s Home Journal
when Rhia walked through the shop floor, the only way to leave the emporium. They exchanged polite farewells. The end of the month was less than a week away, and then Rhia would be on her own. She already had her own key.

The Montgomery barouche, unexpectedly containing Isabella, pulled up just as Rhia stepped onto the footpath. Isabella looked the parody of a snow queen in her Moscow hat and sable pelisse, with a fur rug across her knees. She was almost breathless with excitement when Rhia stepped up beside her. ‘Hello, Miss Mahoney, it seems an absolute age since we’ve seen each other, and I’ve come secretly! Father was called to the mercer’s hall and Mama said that I might come if I was swift, and that she will receive our guests. But you must not tell. He would be
extremely
cross if he discovered I was out unchaperoned. But it is my birthday and I’ll soon be a wife, so I must be free today at least!’

As they passed through Hyde Park, Rhia felt the prickly gaze of side-saddle riders and promenaders carrying lace parasols. Since it was a grey February afternoon, she presumed the parasols were for surveillance. Being inspected for flaws was inevitable. It made Rhia feel like she might have forgotten something essential, and that she had no way of knowing what it was. Isabella on the other hand was perfect for Hyde Park. Everything about her was expensive and modern and she could, and did, hold her head high.

Rhia didn’t have a chance to enquire about Isabella’s husband-to-be, because her companion hardly drew breath. She was intent on taking an inventory of the guest list. This included
the daughters of directors of the Bank of England, a Prussian baroness, an Italian viscount, and sundry earls, lords and dukes. And of course her future husband would be there, though he would be in the parlour with her father and some other gentlemen talking ‘business’. He was, she said, ‘a shipping magnet’.

‘Perhaps he is a magnate?’ Rhia suggested, and Isabella agreed that he might be.

As they turned into Belgrave Square, Isabella clutched Rhia’s hand, taking her by surprise. ‘Oh Miss Mahoney, I wish I were as daring as you! I am so
bored
, especially in the evenings. Papa is always at his club and Mama practically lives in her boudoir. Mama says the servants watch me and report to Papa, but she gets rather muddled so I don’t know if it’s true. If I had my way I should go out every night to Drury Lane! I know it’s risqué, but I have always wanted to have lessons in ballet. Papa should never allow it, he says ballet is vulgar and not at all refined.’

Rhia extracted her hand as gently as she could. She couldn’t help liking Isabella, in spite of her chocolate-box existence. ‘But you’ll soon be married, and you’ll probably have children. From what I know of children, you’ll never be bored again!’

Isabella sighed. ‘Yes, of course. I hope my husband is a kind man.’

‘Do you think he is?’

Isabella shrugged ‘I don’t know. I’ve only met him once.’

Rhia tried not to show how much this surprised her. It shouldn’t. Arranged marriages were common amongst the gentry, and Mr Montgomery would only have his daughter’s interest at heart.

‘Oh drat!’ said Isabella. ‘Papa’s carriage is here. I’ll have to go in the servant’s entrance and pretend I’ve been upstairs.’ She jumped to the ground before Rhia could protest and was gone.

The long, circular drive of the Montgomery residence was lined with liveried carriages, sleek landaus, chariots and attendant footmen. Rhia felt her stomach somersault. She had imagined an intimate tea party, not this. Everywhere she looked were domes of pale lemon chiffon and spray embroidery on white organdie and strawberry tulle. A confectionary of fashion. She felt like a plum duff in her purple taffeta coutil. The blend of silk and cotton was her only purchase since starting at the emporium. She had chosen purple to feel brave. The goddess Rhiannon wore a purple cloak.

She stayed in the barouche for a moment to survey the scene and prepare herself. It was just like a page from
Sylvia’s Home Journal
. Grace would have loved it. Waists and slippers were pointed, bodices were boned and corsages
en coeur
, crinolines were enormous and flounced, sleeves, if present, were short and tight with a manchette of lace at the elbow.

Rhia stepped to the ground and ascended the imposing stairs as nonchalantly as she could. She felt the eyes of the powdered and thin on her, and saw herself through their eyes: the complexion of a farm worker, Irish cloak (no fur trim), no ringlets. She would have a sip of tea and a bite of cake and then she would develop a headache and leave.

The drawing room was a clutter of crinolines, and there was no sign of Isabella. Prunella Montgomery smiled vaguely at her then patted the divan she was perched on. Rhia sat beside her and Prunella offered a glass of sherry from the decanter at her elbow, presumably her own personal supply. Rhia accepted. Sherry seemed a much better idea than tea.

‘Are you enjoying the party, dear?’ Prunella asked, hesitating before she said ‘dear’ as though she’d forgotten Rhia’s name. Rhia answered politely that she was, and added that she was also enjoying the emporium. Mrs Montgomery looked
confused for a moment and then nodded absently. Rhia could see that she would have to uphold the conversation, so she prattled on about how much she loved being in the storeroom, and how it was like a treasure trove.

Mrs Montgomery raised her eyebrows. Her pale blue eyes had a milky ring around the pupil and there were hollow, bluish shadows beneath them, which no amount of powder could hide. The remnants of beauty were there, but Prunella Montgomery had clearly ceased to care. ‘You must get Isabella to show you my collection upstairs, dear,’ she said, ‘if you think the silks in the emporium are treasures.’

The sherry went down easily under the circumstances, and Mrs Montgomery was soon refilling Rhia’s glass along with her own. Her hand was unsteady and the tawny liquid dripped down the outer edge of the glass as she poured.

By the time Rhia had drained her third glass of sherry, she was openly discussing the fate of Mahoney Linen, certain that she was being unsophisticated because her hostess’s eyebrows seemed permanently raised. Eventually she realised that they were pencilled on.

When Isabella came into view, her mother called her over. ‘You must take your friend up to see the collection, Isabella.’

‘Oh yes! You simply must see it, Miss Mahoney.’

Mrs Montgomery took Isabella by the wrist and pulled her close. ‘But make sure your father doesn’t see you – you know he doesn’t like you to neglect your guests.’ She took a key from her reticule and pressed it into Isabella’s hand.

‘We’ll take the servant’s stair,’ Isabella assured her mother, and they exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

Isabella kept hold of Rhia’s hand and pulled her along a short corridor off the reception hall where more confections clustered together, their eyes darting to and fro behind watered silk fans.

They hurried up a narrow darkened stair to the second floor landing and Isabella lifted a candelabra from a sideboard and put it down outside one of the doors off the landing so that she could unlock it.

‘This is where Mama’s cloth is stored,’ Isabella said in a whisper.

‘Why are you whispering? Are you forbidden here?’

‘Oh, no, but the servants are. Mama is very fond of her collection.’ Isabella giggled nervously.

‘Would your father really be angry if he discovered you had left your guests?’

‘Probably, though as I said Mama tends to exaggerate where he’s concerned. He means to announce my wedding today you see …’ Isabella trailed off and shrugged as carelessly as she could. ‘As you say, it will relieve my boredom. Besides, I shall run away and find employment if I don’t like my husband, just as you have!’

Rhia couldn’t imagine Isabella surviving for a moment in a world that was not lined with fur and draped in tulle. Surely she must understand that it was her father’s money and influence that upholstered her comfortable journey through life.

Isabella opened the door onto an anteroom that must once have been a dressing room. It was furnished only with carved cherry wood trunks. Isabella opened one, and then another, and the dark little room was suddenly transformed. Prunella Montgomery was right. These were treasures. Isabella pulled out length after length of embroidered and appliquéd silk covered in intricate needlework or sewn with tiny pearls. Some were literally weighed down with gemstones. In most, the weave of the fabric was entirely obscured by ornament. The cloth exhaled the scents of foreign lands, which Rhia found as sensuous as the textiles themselves. She exclaimed over each
new piece until she felt light-headed. It was soon too much to take in. One of these textiles alone would have stunned her, but an entire room full was overpowering. She could not begin to imagine their value. Isabella had been enjoying her stupefaction, but was suddenly anxious to return before she was missed.

Rhia took a last look around. She had not noticed the hanging on the wall that was twinkling like a galaxy in the candlelight. It was a patchwork of sea-coloured silks, sewn with sapphires and emeralds and peridot. It made Rhia strangely uneasy, giving her the same creeping sensation as the trees in the morning room at Cloak Lane. She was now as eager as Isabella to leave.

On the landing a maid brushed past, and Isabella eyed her suspiciously. She whispered to Rhia. ‘That’s Hatty the Tattle. We’d better go down the main stair, since she’ll know I’m being disobedient if she sees us on the servant’s stair.’

Rhia had never known a household so well staffed. There were maids everywhere, plus a butler, a steward and a valet, and who knew how many in the kitchen and stables. It awed her and inspiring awe was no doubt exactly what was intended.

From halfway down the stair, they could see the reception hall below. Mr Montgomery stood right in the middle of the floor, a striking figure in hunting pink and riding boots. He was eyeing their approach whilst talking to Isaac Fisher and to a well-fed, greying gentleman. Isabella’s hand reached for Rhia’s. ‘Oh dear, they’ve finished earlier than I thought, we should have taken the servant’s stair after all.’ She sighed stoically. ‘Oh well.’ Her voice dropped to a whisper as they descended. ‘The gentleman with my father is my future husband, Miss Mahoney. Isn’t he
old
.’ The man wasn’t exactly old, but he was easily twice Isabella’s age.

Mr Montgomery smiled when they arrived at the bottom of the stairs, but he was thin-lipped with displeasure and the annoyance beneath his words was barely contained.

‘I have been looking everywhere for you, Isabella.’

‘I was showing Miss Mahoney Mama’s collection.’

The gentleman beside her father was beaming. He had a round, pleasant face but looked no more endearing at close quarters. Rhia felt a stab of pity as he offered Isabella his arm. They wandered away, he looking as though he couldn’t believe his good fortune in purchasing such a pretty accessory.

Mr Montgomery smiled at Rhia, his ill humour quickly forgotten. Hatty the Tattle hovered with a tray of flutes filled with something pink and fizzing, and Mr Montgomery plucked a glass by the stem for Rhia.

‘Are you enjoying the party, Miss Mahoney?’

‘Oh, very much,’ she lied. She was unbelievably thirsty and emptied half the contents of the flute before she noticed that it was alcoholic. She could feel Isaac’s eyes on her, disapproving, she thought. He was standing back politely, within earshot but not noticeably so.

‘Marvellous,’ said Mr Montgomery. ‘I am pleased with your new designs – have I said so?’ Before she could answer that he hadn’t, he continued, ‘We must print one soon. You show great promise.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Rhia replied. ‘I had worried you might think me better suited to the shop floor.’ His eyebrows shot up and Rhia almost laughed. No wonder Mrs Montgomery was always sauced – drinking made life so much more enjoyable.