He liked to consider that notion when he felt his nerves overcoming him. Most people assumed the war had caused his shattered nerves. The truth was he had always been a rather jittery person and came out of the war about as jittery as he’d gone into it. His mother always said he’d arrived wailing, and never really stopped. When he’d been seven, he cried for an entire day over losing a wooden toy soldier—half the day because he lost it, and then the other half of the day because he found it. Then of course there had been the incident at the Granville’s Christmas party. He had been eighteen and a saucy maid had kissed him. He’d fainted dead away and awoke with a throng of people staring down at him. There had been many other incidents he chose not to recall, and it was hardly surprising—he was a cannon that only needed a match. As he got older, he got better at hiding such outbursts, but they were always there simmering under the surface and there were times theywouldmake an appearance.
Unbeknownst to Lady Heathway, years ago he’d been fired as a butler to a Hertfordshire gentleman when he’d wept in front of forty guests attending a dinner because there was a skin on the gravy.
In his defense, therehadbeen a skin on the gravy, and it had been purposefully allowed to form. The diabolical cook in that house had known how delicate his nerves were and was always trying to upset him. Just that very morning, he’d hid the coffee and pretended they’d run out. When Wilbert had sunk to his knees on the cold stone floor of the kitchens, the rogue had said, “Hah! No, we’re not, I just hid it.”
The skin on the gravy follow-up that evening had pushed him over the edge.
Mr. Gray had sympathized with his unfortunate temperament and wrote him an excellent reference. While he sympathized, he was not sympathetic enough to keep him on. Somebody else could deal with a crying butler.
After that debacle and not finding his next employment, he’d been forced to become a soldier. It really was the last thing he was suited for and the fates had seemed to know it and enjoy toying with him. Of all the soldiers hanging about, why hadhebeen chosen as one of the twenty-four to be the first to cross the Douro River? They were to venture in alone, into enemy territory. It was suicide! They would be cut down as soon as their feet hit the banks! He did not want to die!
As it happened, the crossing was rather uneventful, as it would later turn out that French General Soult had been asleep at the time. They landed at the base of a seminary, which they were welcomed into readily. More and more men began the crossing on two empty wine barges that had been commandeered.
It was all going rather smoothly and so he was surprised to find his feet pulling him away from the other men. He wandered down a long corridor of the seminary and poked his head into some of the rooms. He felt himself growing very calm.
Nobody had actually seen him slip into a closet and cover himself with piles of linen. He’d stayed there, and even slept awhile, as the battle for Porto raged out of doors. When it seemed that it might be safe to emerge, he’d hurried to find his fellow soldiers and claimed he’d been knocked out and lying in the street for the entirety of the battle. Some were skeptical, and one unpleasant fellow even felt around on his head for lumps. But in the end, nobody ever knew where he had spent the Battle of the Douro.
Now, he felt it his duty to force his staff to face the horrors of war head on, lest they venture into one. He told them terrible stories of all he had seen at Porto. Or at least, all he imagined hewouldhave seen, had he come out of the seminary’s linen closet.
At times, it all felt very real, and the memory of the closet and the smell of fresh-washed linen over his face faded as if it had never been. Had he in fact fought bravely, striking down the enemy left and right? Had the idea of a linen closet been only a dream? It was sometimes hard to tell.
If hehadbeen in a closet, he had no wish to ever advertise that particular battle strategy. What he’d rather do was successfully lead the battle charge now. He had armed the servants with heavy wood clubs that stayed under their beds until the moment they were wanted. He waited with impatience for the day when thieves and rogues would attempt to breach the doors. Then, they would find out what Wilbert Ranston was really made of. There would be no linen closet then.
He did find though, that just now he felt himself more jittery than usual. Lady Heathway had installed a young miss in the house and she was forever smiling at him. Every time they crossed paths, she smiled. What was he to do? Smile back?
And then, there were rumblings that the girl’s lady’s maid was coming too. Another person at the servants’ table. It was too much change! It caused too many things to do. Where on earth was he to find the right sort of hefty wooden club for under a new maid’s bed on such short notice?
Just thinking of it all made his insides feel as if his blood was bubbling and he felt a bit woozy. He would go to his apartments and clean his fowling piece and then have a long lie-down. It was the only thing that would calm his nerves.
*
As Grace settledin, the following week’s activities had been confined to indoors. The dresses she’d brought with her were found pleasant enough, but not to Lady Heathway’s high standards—she felt it was vital that Grace’s first showing in society be exceptional.
Her bedchamber was well-proportioned and bright and she often spent an early dawn at the window, watching the quiet activity on the street at that hour. There was, on occasion, a lord on a horse making his way home and certainly the worse for drink. But mostly, there were servants sweeping steps and having quiet chats among themselves as they did so.
Sometimes, she felt so confined in the house that she thought it would be amusing to join them. She could have done it if she had the nerve. A sturdy lead pipe used to funnel rain from the roof ran directly next to the window. Its various bracings to the house would provide easy foot and handholds. When she had been young, she often delighted in escaping a tutor by just such a method. Out a balcony and down a drainpipe she’d go. It often took them a good amount of time to discover how she’d escaped them and that she was then lounging in a hayloft in the stables. Of course, she was too old for that now and even if she were not, those servants would think her mad to join them.
She had been introduced to Lord Heathway, and he seemed a pleasant and good-humored older gentleman. She did not see him very often though, as he was so much at his club. Lady Heathway was of the opinion that the habit was what made him so pleasant. She never complained about the amount of time he spent there, and so he went on contentedly. If, on occasion, he began to forget how fortunate he was, Lady Heathway would mention that a lady of her acquaintance was most unhappy over her husband’s too frequent absences. That would remind him of his own good luck.
The lady had been as good as her word about the modiste turning up to make a plan for the season’s dresses. In fact, Grace had been rather touched by the meeting.
Lady Heathway had brought Madame LeGrange into the drawing room and said, “Now, I know you will be coming with your own ideas, of course that is why I called on you—you have done such excellent work for me in the past. However, I have planned for a daughter my entire life and so have taken the liberty of producing a few sketches.”
Lady Heathway had then opened a case and took out her drawings. To call it afewsketches was not even close to the truth. There were scores of them. They had all been drawn in ink and then very prettily painted in watercolors. Grace thought it was very kind of Lady Heathway to invest so much time in the project. The sketches were also, both to her and Madame LaGrange’s surprise, rather good.
The two ladies put their heads together and made little adjustments here and there and talked of suitable fabrics. There were to be all manner of gowns and day dresses in silks, satins, and fine muslins. A smart-looking riding habit in dark green was proposed. Pelisses were designed, though spencers were firmly off the table, as Lady Heathway deemed them ridiculous. She said the Earl of Spencer was an idiot for thinking up the idea. Elegant simplicity was to be the watchword in Lady Heathway’s house.
As Grace poured the tea that Ranston had brought in to sustain the ladies, Lady Heathway said, “Madame LeGrange, I find we think alike. Grace’s wardrobe is to be refined and not overdone.”
“With what pleasure will I prepare these,” Madame LeGrange said, waving her hand over the various sketches on the table. “You cannot know, my lady, how often I am forced to add more and more to a dress. More ribbon, more gold thread, more embroidery! I think, am I dressing peacocks or people? And now, the habit of adding military touches. On a young lady? My heart breaks over it.”
Lady Heathway nodded sagely. “Those with no confidence cannot stop themselves when they ought.”
“Just so,” Madame LeGrange replied.
“Now, my good woman, we must develop a battle plan of sorts,” Lady Heathway said cheerfully. “I know I cannot have everything at once, but an important ball is to be held Thursday next and we will need a dress by then. It will be Grace’s first outing. The first time she will meet many important people. It must be perfect. Which do you think?”
Madame LeGrange looked critically over the sketches and pointed. “For a debut into society? It must be this one.”
