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“What is that?” she asked Mercy when she returned with two strong men carrying a trunk. “The bell?”
“There’s a fog coming in from the sea. It’s to warn anyone out in their boats or with a way to go home to start out now. The tower is on the other side of the house, my lady, which is why you can’t see it.”
“A fog.”
“We call it a sea fret here. Thick as smoke they are, sometimes, and easy to get lost in. Now, here are the clothes I told you about. I’ll let you have a look through them while I go and find your maid for you.”
The trunk was old and marked, and when she opened it, a strong smell of lavender wafted out. Inside, the clothing was folded and packed with care, and as she drew out the first dress—flimsy yellow muslin—she realized they were in the Regency style o
f around forty years ago. Like the sari she had worn at Minnie Duval’s, these were clinging fashions with waistlines under the breasts and skirts that dropped to the ankles without any gathers or tucks, and without the need for more than one narrow petticoat.
By the time Hettie slipped into the room, she had almost emptied the trunk. “Look!” she cried in amazement. “There are shoes and bonnets, too, and stockings and these dreadful old-fashioned corsets, and some very beautiful cashmere shawls.”
“Hmm.” Hettie cast her eye over the clothing spread on top of Portia’s bed. “Does any of it fit you, lieben? That is the important thing.”
“I think so. Or if not, they will only need some minor alterations.”
“What of the slippers?”
“They are a little big, but I found some boots with laces that will be useful.”
Hettie nodded, beginning to sort through the clothing herself with a professional air. “You should wear this one today. I will see that the rest are washed and pressed.”
Portia tried to read her faithful maid’s face. “Is it very bad here, Hettie? Shouldn’t we have come?”
Hettie smiled. “No, it is not bad at all. It is not London, certainly, but I can make do. Mrs. Stroud does not seem to mind.”
“Where is Mother? I haven’t seen her since we arrived.”
“She is with Mercy in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen?”
“She seemed perfectly happy, my lady, so I left her there.” Hettie handed Portia a chemise, silk stockings, and a paper thin petticoat. “Here, these should do. Will you dress now?”
“I heard the bell ringing.”
“The fog is coming in. If you go up into the tower you can see it creeping across the sea like an enormous fleece of wool. I would not go out in such a thing,” she added with a shudder.
The dress, a pale turquoise, made her eyes look green. Apart from the scarlet silk, Portia had not worn vibrant colors for so long that it was strange to do so now, even though technically she was out of mourning. It was only to please the queen that she had remained in half mourning for so long. The style of the dress, accentuating her bosom and then falling in a narrow skirt to her ankles, was flattering, if strange, to one brought up on tight waists and wide skirts with many petticoats. She felt uncomfortable yet daring, as if she was walking about in her underwear.
The boots didn’t exactly go with the dress, but with some padding in the toes, they fit comfortably enough, and she had her own cloak to wear over everything, for warmth and modesty. Hettie found a brush for her hair, and as there was no hairdresser, styled it simply in plaits, using the jeweled combs to keep it up.
“I will clean the lavender silk,” Hettie muttered to herself, frowning at the mud stains around the hem. “You may need it.”
Portia laughed, surprising herself. “I somehow don’t think Duval Hall hosts many balls, Hettie.”
“But you may need it when you return to London,” her maid retorted.
Portia sighed. “London seems far away,” she said.
There was a moment when her emotions could have dived, as a wave of memory and anxiety threatened to swamp her, but she pushed the past aside and rose above it. She was here now and she’d make the best of it. She might even enjoy herself.
“Come on, Hettie,” she said firmly, and held out her hand. “Let’s explore.”
Chapter 24
Marcus was working on a sluice gate out in the marsh. It was rusted open and he and his men—he’d hired several big strong lads from the village—were trying to close it. If the water could be kept from flooding what had once been a rich and productive field, it could eventually be reclaimed. He could be growing crops here by next spring.
