A Song Twice Over (8 page)

Or so Gemma knew her mother would have considered. The kind of girl one did not employ as a parlourmaid if one valued the peace of mind of one's grooms and footmen. Or the virtue of one's younger sons. But Gemma, who had made up her mind long ago that, having no beauty of her own, she would not be churlish about it, came forward with a brisk but pleasant greeting.

‘I am Miss Dallam. What may I do for you?'

‘My name is Adeane, Miss Dallam – Cara Adeane, Dressmaker and Milliner, newly arrived in this area …'

‘From where? Are you Irish?' To Gemma's mother
that
would not be a recommendation. Nor to Mrs Drubb either.

‘From Paris, Miss Dallam – from the rue Saint Honoré. The establishment of Madame Juliette Récamier, a milliner of great talent, who passed on so much of her knowledge to me – so many of her designs. May I show you?'

‘Madame
Récamier
, did you say?'

Gemma, smiling, did not believe a word of it. But Cara, smiling back at her, had already lifted the lid of her hat-box, nimbly undone the complicated fastenings of her carpet-bag, and began to fill the room with a rainbow swirl of fabric and colour, a white silk shawl intricately embroidered with white and silver flowers, another with blue forget-me-nots, which she threw carelessly but oh so becomingly across the back of a chair; quilted silk petticoats and starched muslin ones all differently flounced and frilled and trimmed with lace of a quality and design to which Cara referred with enormous reverence and no regard for the truth whatsoever as ‘Chantilly', ‘Valenciennes', ‘Point de Venise' – ‘One can always tell
quality. Don't
you think?'

‘I dare say,' murmured Gemma, to whom lace was only, and somewhat tediously,
lace
.

And then the hats. A natural straw ruched with pink silk inside the brim and covered with pink silk roses without. A demure cottage bonnet with bows and a lace frill. A dashing wide-brimmed confection of black velvet ribbons and white feathers.

‘Just samples, you understand, of the work I do – the stitches – the
style
– which is what really matters. Something a little out of the ordinary. Only a small selection, of course. As much as I can carry. But anything else you might require, I should be only too happy – from lace-edged night-caps to ballgowns – a trousseau?'

Gemma smiled again, understanding the rapid professional assessment this other girl – this girl from a different universe of experience to her own, surely? – had made of her. Rich. Not much to look at. Over twenty. Therefore certain to be thinking of marriage. True enough, she conceded, wondering what assessment she could make, in her turn, of Miss Cara Adeane, once one got beyond the beauty? Bold, certainly. And glib. Neither too scrupulous nor too honest, for which Gemma – having been told that honesty, among the lower orders, must needs operate at a correspondingly lower level – did not feel able to blame her. Younger perhaps than she looked and sounded. A strumpet, her father would have said, his face stern as befitted his rank of industrialist and paterfamilias, but with that glint of humour in his eye which only Gemma – never her mother – understood. While her mother would have been likely to treat this girl with the outward show of superiority, the inner timidity and suspicion one might accord to some exotic jungle animal, expecting it to be tame enough but never
quite
certain.

And what did Gemma herself really know of the streets of Frizingley – the natural habitat of ‘persons'such as these – beyond the observations made from an open landau in summer whenever her mother, who was nervous of crowds and noises and the way the hot air might stir up a riotous populace or a crop of infectious diseases, could be persuaded to visit the shops. Or from an occasional visit to her father's mill when she would be shown over the counting houses and the pattern rooms, never the weaving sheds.

She was twenty-two years old, well-read and exceedingly well-mannered, capable of handling servants, keeping household account books, issuing accurate commands for the restocking of food cupboards and linen cupboards, organizing dinner and appropriate entertainment for any number of guests. She knew French, Italian, Latin and German, had a working knowledge of mathematics, and – although her mother had begged her never to refer to this in ‘company' – was acquainted with the aims of Her Majesty's present government and the names and dispositions of Her ministers. She had her own views on import tariffs, knew exactly why the Corn Laws should be abolished, and more than even her father realized about the state of Frizingley's textile trade. Yet had never once been outside the shelter of her father's garden walls alone, without the chaperonage of at least a maid, a coachman and her old governess, as befitted a young lady of rank and fortune whose delicacy and whose reputation must at all times be protected.

A rule not to be relaxed until her marriage, when – like her dowry – she would pass from her father's control to her husband's.

And what restrictions would Tristan be likely to impose? Would he even remember, at the end of any day, to ask or care just how she had spent it? Doubting it, she smiled at Cara Adeane, wondering if a girl like this, accustomed to roaming wherever she pleased, could understand the reasons why Miss Dallam of Frizingley Hall was indeed contemplating marriage? Not for security or companionship or affection – since she had always had these things in plenty – but quite simply to be rid of the gentle, well-meaning hand on her elbow hurrying her away from anything at which it might be thought improper for her to look; to be free of the earnest, kindly voice murmuring its warnings about the many vital prohibitions – not understanding politics, not eating cheese, never disagreeing with the gentlemen, dearest.
So
simple – which Society imposed on its ladies.

No. This beautiful girl with her living to earn, her eyes drinking in the luxury with which Gemma was surrounded, would not easily understand that. Just as Gemma, as she readily conceded, understood little about the earning of livings, such pursuits being inappropriate to her in a world which did not permit paid employment to its gentlewomen. No. Her task in life was to live on the fruits of other people's labour and she was honest enough to admit that she could not really know how she might feel without the absolute security of her father, John-William Dallam, and his weaving mill, behind her.

Freedom might seem precarious then. Freedom to go hungry, as she supposed this girl had often done; would do again, perhaps, unless she sold some of these shawls and bonnets.

‘We always go to Miss Baker in Market Street,' she said now, not unkindly but not wishing to arouse false hopes, since she doubted if her mother would wish to buy. While Gemma herself, as the ‘daughter of the house', no matter how cherished, lacked the authority to order goods without permission.

That too would alter on her wedding day.

‘Ah to be sure – Miss Ernestine Baker,' the lilting Irish voice sounded faintly amused although wishing to be good-natured about it, the sparkling sea-blue eyes issuing an invitation to poke a little gentle fun at that excellent but – goodness – that
dreary
lady. ‘I know her well. The poor soul. How hard she tries – to keep pace, I mean. But with fashion sweeping along these days, and ladies everywhere running so fast after it … And her eyesight, of course. It saddens me whenever I think of it. But, at her age, what else can one expect? And fine needlework, you know, gets along much better if the seamstress can actually
see
. Not that Miss Baker sews her own seams … Heavens, no. One can get little charity-school girls with eyes like sparrow-hawks to do that. But when it comes to embroidery and cutting and design – to the
flair
… Well – you can't rely on charity-school girls for that. At least
I
wouldn't care to.'

‘I suppose not.' Gemma, who knew Miss Baker's eyes to be as keen as ever, having been fitted by her very recently for an evening gown, felt, nevertheless, much inclined for laughter, as beguiled by the melodious voice, the graceful gestures, the teasing brilliance of the blue-green eyes as even hard-hearted Mrs Drubb had been.

‘How long have you been in Frizingley?'

‘Three months, madam.'

Three hard months, perhaps, thought Gemma, toiling on foot from one cold door to another, dragging the weight of that carpet-bag and the cumbersome wooden hat-box with its worn leather strap and its newly painted lettering ‘Miss Cara Adeane. Dressmaker and Milliner.' Months without much profit either, for Gemma had detected no anxiety as to falling trade in Miss Ernestine Baker, no hint of any unwelcome competition, when she had called, only a few days ago, with suggested patterns for Mrs Dallam's winter wardrobe.

And somehow, without knowing
how
she knew it, she realized that behind her sparkle the girl was tired, weary to the bone in a way Gemma's over-protected body had never been weary. Was she hungry too? Or thirsty? Very probably. But there were inflexible rules about the offering of refreshments, all-powerful decrees of Etiquette from which she had been trained never to deviate. One served tea to one's social equals in the drawing-room. One might offer a charitable loaf of bread to a beggar at one's gate. One took soup to the ‘deserving poor'in their cottages or, in her mother's case, waited in one's carriage looking apprehensive while one's coachman carried in the lukewarm nourishment packed in hay. One knew that the servants sometimes gave a jug of ale to a tradesman on a hot afternoon at the kitchen door, and not even Gemma's mother made a fuss about it. But one gave nothing to visitors such as this but ten minutes of one's time, at the most, and a pleasant dismissal. One simply did not encourage them. Her mother's policy on the matter was clear enough, and it was certainly not the business of an unmarried ‘daughter at home'to change it.

How it would horrify her mother, and Mrs Drubb, should she lose her head sufficiently to offer the girl a chair, and a drink. But then, since she had already decided to accept the proposal Tristan Gage had made her, in his diffident, charming manner, two days ago – ‘You know, my dear, that I'll just be holding my breath, don't you, until I have your reply' – why not use her own judgement again, in this.

How irksome – truly – that she even felt the need to hesitate.

‘Perhaps you would care to wait a while, Miss Adeane,' she said calmly, ‘while I go and tell my mother what you have to offer? Do sit down. Those bags must be so heavy. And I will have them bring you some tea.'

She had broken a social commandment. She waited a moment, listening as if for the shattering of glass, and when none occurred went off with a quiet smile to find first Tristan Gage and then her mother.

Amabel Dallam, much-loved wife of the industrialist John-William Dallam, had been aware all morning that something exciting was about to take place. She had sensed it at once on waking, something which happened to her fairly often, for she was highly sensitive, even ‘fey'she liked to think, and when something was in the air it had small chance of escaping her notice. So she had been telling everyone who would listen ever since breakfast-time, her maid, her housekeeper Mrs Drubb, Tristan Gage himself and his sister, Linnet, both of them her godchildren, who had been guests in her house for so long that she could hardly bear to part with them. And if her dear daughter, Gemma,
should
decide to accept Tristan's very obliging proposal then perhaps she wouldn't have to.

Amabel Dallam was a woman of a ‘certain'age – a little over forty – with the kind of porcelain prettiness – pale, delicately-chiselled features, fine, fair hair, a frail breathlessness of figure which had survived the passing of girlishness to give her an air of endearing fragility.

She was also a happy woman and, in accordance with her own values, a successful one, being the possessor of everything she had ever wanted in life. Except a son, of course – all her pregnancies except the first having come to nothing – although, should her daughter prove so inclined, the lack could be remedied in Tristan. Not that anyone would dream of forcing her, nor of exerting even the slightest pressure, as anyone could tell by the number of ‘eligibles' dear Gemma had already turned down. Good Heavens, no. One simply took the obvious precaution of putting suitable – and
only
suitable – young men in her way. No more than that. But what – wondered Gemma's fond mother – could she find amiss with Tristan Gage?

Amabel herself had married at the earliest moment she possibly could, straight from the schoolroom in fact, just sixteen years old, the outright winner of the matrimonial race that season, the envy of all her older sisters and cousins, her own heart almost bursting with pride as she'd gone to the altar with John-William Dallam, twenty years her senior, of course – as her father had been that much older than her mother – since gentlemen did not marry until they could afford to support a wife in a proper manner. And John-William Dallam had wished to embark upon the state of matrimony as he had done everything else. With considerable style. And perhaps as much because of the difference in their ages as the dependent quality of her character, she had always found it perfectly natural that he should lead; and she should follow.

She had continued to adore him, had placed her life in his square-palmed, slightly roughened hands with perfect confidence. If John-William said it would be all right then it would be. Her creed consisted, quite simply, of that. And how relaxed and easy and
gracious
her life had been, how free from all anxiety since there had never been the least need to worry about anything so long as John-William was there. How safe. How untroubled by the need to make decisions, having decided, once and for all, on her wedding day, to trust him. Not only to submit to his guidance but to thrive upon it.

Nor had she ever been unduly burdened with the toils and tediums of housekeeping since her husband, having made his fortune
before
their marriage, had naturally chosen to advertise his success to the world not only by the purchase of a large house but by the employment of maids and cooks and the admirable Mrs Drubb to make him comfortable in it. It had always been a matter of pride to him that he could afford to keep his wife as an ornament in his best parlour. It had always been
her
pleasure to decorate. And if she regarded him emotionally as a father rather than a lover she was supremely content to be his much-loved, over-protected child.