“As I thought too,” Lady Heathway said. “If we both, as women of discernment, agree on the choice, it must be right.”
“Naturellement,” Madame LeGrange said, nodding.
Grace was rather pleased with the selection. As the weather was still quite cool, a gown had been chosen that she thought would do very well. The cut was to be as simple as a gown could possibly be, the silhouette softened and without the pinched-up bodice that suited nobody. The sleeves were simple and capped rather than puffed. There would be no added embellishments to it. It would only be elevated by its material, which would be a midnight blue velvet lined in a thin silk of the same color.
Since that happy meeting, Lady Heathway had shown Grace all the accoutrements she had purchased ahead of time, in full confidence that Madame LeGrange would approve of her sketches. There were gloves, bonnets, ribbons, stockings, parasols, and even a selection of reticules. Stacks of slippers had been made in various sizes as the lady had not been sure of the dimension of Grace’s foot and they could often take so long to be made and delivered. The ones that did not fit were to be given to a charity school Lady Heathway patronized. Grace could not help but be grateful for how much effort the lady had put into things. It was rather extraordinary to know that one had been in another’s thoughts and plans so often.
As the days passed and she became more acquainted with Lady Heathway, Grace was convinced that underneath what could be a terrifying exterior beat a rather generous heart. Her household certainly was not one that might be expected from a dragon-like lady. Grace had got to know it in both slow degrees and alarming lurches.
The butler, Ranston, seemed always a rather harried individual and Grace was soon apprised that he was prone to attacks of nerves. Another lady might have found the temperament inconvenient, but Lady Heathway appeared long accustomed to it.
On one particularly harried day, Ranston had been questioned over whether he’d put in an order for Lord Heathway’s favored wines. Ranston had only got a faraway look in his eyes and stood like a statue in the middle of the drawing room. Lady Heathway had said, “Well, Ranston, you and I both know you’d better lie down for a while.”
She’d told Grace later that there was no use in keeping up the questioning. If she’d done so, Ranston would have had a crying jag right in the drawing room and be abed for days to recover. As it was, he would rest, and then he would put in the order.
Grace could not imagine what Lord and Lady Barlow would have done if their own butler, Manfred, had a crying jag in the drawing room. But then, Lady Heathway had told her, “Ranston, like others, had a bad time in the war and so I find it is patriotic to look the other way when one’s butler is on the verge of a breakdown.”
The footmen, all young and tall and of an age where boys were wont to mock any hint of weakness were surprisingly respectful of Ranston. Grace could not imagine what horrors the butler had faced in the war, but she suspected the footmen knew the particulars and were chastened by it.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Redwiggin, appeared to understand her mistress very well. Lady Heathway liked to view her standards as the highest, and the housekeeper happily complied. Mrs. Redwiggin was forever coming to Lady Heathway to report that this or that business that supplied the house was now found to be falling in their standards, but that Mrs. Redwiggin had contracted with another business that was so exclusive that they regularly turned away less lofty customers. Or some such nonsense. The queen’s name was often bandied about and Lady Heathway was gratified by her housekeeper’s various gambits on the subject. For all Mrs. Redwiggin’s officiousness, she too was very considerate to Mr. Ranston.
It was all exceedingly odd, but then Grace had been delighted to discover that she was to get back her lady’s maid. Lady Heathway was perfectly amenable to rehiring Betsy, who had been let go when Grace had moved to the dower house. Dear Betsy had stayed on in Kent with an aunt who did not live very far away from Barlow Hall and she had at once been sent for. It was not three days before Betsy was very happily back in employment.
Grace was comforted to have her back. It seemed as if part of her old life had joined her in Berkeley Square. And in any case, she supposed it was always helpful to have at least one friend below stairs. One might learn a great deal that way and it was how Grace knew that Manfred had always had a soft spot for her father’s hunting dogs. Apparently, the butler had made it a habit of saving choice bits of meat for them. Grace supposed Betsy would have a lot to say about Mr. Ranston’s shattered nerves.
Grace was surprised at how often she saw Lord Gresham at the house. She’d thought he’d been quite aggravated when his aunt had pressed him to take her into supper at the upcoming ball, but that had not seemed to put him off arriving nearly every day. It seemed no matter was too small for him to inform his aunt about. He would come to apprise Lady Heathway that Lackington and Allen had expanded their hours for the season, or that Lord and Lady Penmar had arrived to Town, or that Lord Nankin had a mare for sale that she might like for her own stables. One day, he even forgot what he came for.
Interestingly, he seemed to know the household schedule very well, and invariably turned up for tea or dinner.
What a well put together man he was! His dress was always perfection, his valet clearly knowing his work. And he was no fop either. There was nothing of fussiness in his appearance, rather it had a rather careless and unstudied air that could only be arrived at by thoughtful composition. Though he always looked so well, she did not think he was one of those gentlemen who spent all their time on appearance as he was proving himself very well read. She could also not help but to notice that he sat a horse very finely.
She found she very much enjoyed conversing with him, and of course Lady Heathway was always delighted to see her nephew.
Everything went along exceedingly pleasantly in Grace’s new circumstances. Until one occurrence brought the Viking that Lady Heathway was capable of being back out on view.
A letter from Lady Barlow arrived.
Chapter Four
The letter LadyBarlow had sent had, unfortunately, revealed that the lady was still of a mind to be removed from Kent. She wrote that she was certain the London air would do her more good than the country air ever had. Further unfortunate, Grace had shown it to Lady Heathway thinking she might relent and allow her mother to come. The lady had been incensed and directed Grace that she was not to answer such a ridiculous salvo. A nurse had been secured and was even now installed in the house and they would trust the reports from that lady and Sir Henry only.
Grace had not been entirely comfortable ignoring a letter from her mother and had slipped a note into the outgoing post regardless. Her words had been kind, but firm, and she had apprised her mother of the real case of things. There would be no point in hinting she ought to come, as Lady Heathway would not be moved. It would be far better to allow the nurse and Sir Henry to treat her illness, and Grace promised she would do her best to see that her mother did not remain in the dower house forever.
Now, it was the evening of Lady Easton’s ball. She was finally to leave the house! And, to leave it in such a gown. It was positively glorious, the cut fit perfectly to her figure and the velvet of the highest quality. The silk lining allowed the skirt to move freely and gave it a wonderful drape. There had been a matching pelisse made too, trimmed in beaver and lined with dark blue satin. It had two clever inside pockets, as Lady Heathway was of the opinion that clothes should be both elegant and useful. A rather perfect pair of white gloves, and pretty satin slippers completed the arrangement. Lady Heathway had lent Grace one of her own necklaces—a delicate silver setting holding a brilliant aquamarine surrounded by smaller sapphires.
Betsy worked on her hair and went through the servants one by one, giving her expert assessment. Cook was a grumpy old man who believed in tradition, except for white soup, which he appeared to nurse a deep hatred for in solidarity with his mistress. The kitchen maid, Jenny, was rather sly and Betsy did not like her or trust her. She’d not been in the house a day before Jenny was trying to engage her in gossip, which of course, she did not like. Betsy was also sure Jenny stole things out of the larder and sold them as she’d seen her pocket a handful of tea before Mrs. Redwiggin remembered to lock the chest. The housemaids, Meggy and Anne, steered well clear of Jenny and Betsy would too—somebody else would have to take Jenny to task. The footmen, Benny and Gregory, were just as you would expect—young men who could not decide if they were adults or children. Mrs. Redwiggin had standards, at least one would assume so—she rarely talked of anything else. Mr. Ranston was a conundrum, a nervous creature and yet a warlike creature. One never knew if he would weep or wax on about the war.
Grace supposed Betsy had sized them all up quick enough. As for Jenny stealing tea, it was on one hand something Lady Heathway should know, and on the other hand, it was not the role of a visiting lady’s maid to unmask a thief in the household. Grace thought Betsy was right to simply steer clear. If Betsy knew it, then Mr. Ranston and Mrs. Redwiggin must know it and it would be their purview to determine what to do about it.
“The Viscount would be right proud of you, and Lady Barlow too,” Betsy said. “Look at you, getting ready to march into that ballroom and slay all of London.”
“I hardly think I will march,” Grace said, laughing, “and a ball is not a battlefield.”
Betsy sighed. “I expect you’re right. I been listening to Mr. Ranston too much at my meals. He does tell the most terrible stories! It turns my stomach sometimes, if I imagine the battle scenes too closely.”
“Dear me,” Grace said, rather surprised to hear the butler was telling war stories at table within hearing of the female servants.
“Dearme, and double,” Betsy said. “He scares the wits from me on occasion. Do you know we all have a wood club under our beds in case the house is breached? He says if we hear any unusual sound in the night, we’re to creep silent down the halls with our clubs raised and prepare to fight. We’re to fight as hard as we can until he can get there with his fowling piece and then he’ll blow the intruder to bits. He keeps the gun loaded and cleans it every Sunday.”
