By The Sea, Book One: Tess (10 page)

Tess drew a deep, slow breath. Should she
fight for this wretched position? Did she have a choice? She
exhaled slowly. "Of course I feel differently. I—" A knock
interrupted her.

"Ah, Marie! Good." To Tess Cornelia said,
"There's a rather elaborate picnic planned today; Marie will be
accompanying me. Perhaps a quiet afternoon of reflection will allow
you to put things in a better perspective," she suggested in a
voice filled with meaning. "You might look over the ecru satin
gown. I tore it last night learning a new mazurka. They do it
differently—oh, never mind. See if the gown can be salvaged, but
I'm sure it cannot. Do hurry, Marie."

Marie, pretty, dark, with a Frenchwoman's
expressiveness. rolled her eyes at Tess and fell in behind her
mistress.

Tess was left alone, with sewing to last her
a week. (Cornelia was very hard on her wardrobe, having learned
early on that a little well-placed sabotage worked just as well as
begging and pleading all the time for new gowns.) Tess took up the
torn dress, an off-white satin gown with fine lace appliqué
spilling over the shoulders into a free fall down the back, over
the bustle, and along the edge of the train. The tear, a diagonal
rent across the fabric, was obvious. Tess thought about it for a
while, at length deciding to sew appliquéd lace of a complementary
design over the rip, though it meant introducing the new pattern
randomly throughout the fall of lace. It would require hours, even
days, of handsewing, but the gown was an exquisite piece of art,
and Tess was determined to save it.

Or am I really doing this simply out of
malice?
she wondered.
To thwart her?
She laid the dress
flat on a table in Cornelia's dressing room and smiled.
Probably.

After an hour of planning and sketching, she
was ready to begin the painstaking work of separating lace motifs
from the roll of exquisite appliqué that lay folded in tissue in
one of a pair of tall French semainiers that stood side by side in
the dressing room. Tess took out the appliqué, then wandered over
to a small lead-paned window which opened out onto the manicured
grounds.

Two elderly guests were touring the garden,
companionably arm in arm, sharing a parasol. A small terrier
trotted busily ahead of the ladies, then returned to shepherd them
forward, determined to keep his touring party together and safe.
The morning was perfect, another pearl strung onto a necklace of
fine days, and Tess decided to take her work outside to her
favorite bench in the servants' yard. The servants' yard was tiny,
it was true, but much grander houses then Beau Rêve had no yard at
all for their staffs. Space in fashionable Newport was dear; the
whole of Aquidneck Island could have been dropped into the park of
one large country house in England. Tess had been spoiled by
Wrexham, but fortunately for her, her American employer was an
outdoor enthusiast who firmly believed that fresh air was necessary
to cleanse the body and make it more energetic.

Tess settled into an iron and pine bench
tucked among high hedges and took up her scissors and the lace from
her sewing basket. The work was so pleasant, the day so warm, and
her daydreams so sweetly melancholy, that two hours passed as
one.

The afternoon was in its most languid phase
when Bridget rushed up to her and asked, "Have you seen Peter
Boot?"

Tess shook her head and Bridget hurried on,
but the thought that Peter Boot might be in the area made Tess
reluctantly begin to gather up her things. The sound of a man's
footfall on the path startled her into a panic; she stuffed the
lace into her basket and jumped up, ready for flight.

"You're
here,
Tess!"

Edward Hillyard was dressed, this time, in
white flannels and a beautifully cut double-breasted blazer, with a
yachting cap in one hand. In the bright sunlight the tips of his
sun-bleached hair and even his mustache shone as brass as the
buttons of his jacket. He was an outdoor dilettante, tan and fit
and urbane all at the same time, an eminently decorative guest.

"Of course I'm here," Tess answered rather
calmly, despite the knockdown that her heart had taken. "Where else
would I be?"

"Down at the wharves, of course. I heard one
maid tell another that the 'Moran girl' had gone to see her
'busted-up brother' somewhere near Howard's Wharf."

"Maggie Moran, that would be. My
sister."

"Ah. Well—you're looking wonderfully serene.
I assume that means your brother is mending nicely?"

"He seems to be." Serene! Her emotions were
dragging her like a runaway horse.

"Good. In any case, if your sister had
chosen to look out her brother's window, she would've spied a
nattily dressed yachtsman skulking around the wharf like a water
rat. That would be your servant, ma'am," he said with a bow and a
flourish of his cap.

"But why?" The words floated from her, soft
as the flight of a butterfly.

He shrugged. "Why. Who can say why? I'm
bored, you interest me, the picnic was a fiasco—"

"Oh yes, the picnic. Miss Cornelia did say
it was going to be 'rather elaborate,'" Tess interrupted, mostly
for something to say.

Because he was just standing there, twirling
his hat, or trying to. His dark brows were pulled together in
concentration as he managed a wobbly circle. For one silly instant
he looked like an eager, intelligent puppy, which endeared him to
her.

He stopped, grinned, tossed the hat up,
caught it by its visor and said, "Oh, it was an elaborate picnic,
all right: Team A, which included half a dozen of us nautical
types, was to take a new and completely experimental
gasoline-powered yacht over to Price's Neck, there to anchor off
and join forces ashore with Team B and several magnums—or is that
'magna'?—of champagne and mountains of pâté. I predict great things
for the internal combustion engine, but not quite yet. Anyway, the
damn thing sputtered and died around Castle Hill, and we were towed
back by a steam yacht and flung up on one of the piers like the
catch
du jour.
Give me a sturdy mainsail and a halyard to
hoist it with anytime. End of picnic plan. Can you sit?"

"I can," she said with an impish look, "but
I think the others may consider that you're trespassing."

"Ouch. Tossed out on my flannels by the
servant class, no less. Ah well—may I walk with you a bit?"

"I don't think so." Her voice, soft and
blurred, sounded unconvincing. "Why are you in our yard?" Clearly
it wasn't to seek her out.

"My dear young woman, I'm ashamed to say.
We're playing an inane version of hide and seek; the first three
men to be found by the first three women have to exchange clothes
with them. Some of them, anyway. It's absurd. Miss Cornelia's idea.
She considered she was being brilliantly original, I suppose."

Tess and Hillyard had begun
sauntering—technically, it was true, it could not be called
walking—toward the entrance to the yard. Tess, dressed in her
uniform of black, would have liked just once to be wearing white,
extravagant and elegant and gay. She wanted the luxury of being
able to laugh in the company of this man. To tease him. To be arch
and clever and coy. But a maddening sense of propriety would not
let her.

"So you are hiding from a game of hide and
seek," she said wistfully.

"Which you would not, I gather? Am I to take
it you enjoy games and amusements?"

"Oh, yes—in Wrexham we seemed to do so much
more of that than here. And dancing, too. I love to dance. More
than once Lady Meller and even Sir Meller surprised us in the hall
and joined us in a romp around the floor."

You make England sound very democratic," he
said blandly. "And yet when I was privileged to visit a very fine
country house in Suffolk the year before last, it did not seem so
to me. I would be walking through the house, minding my own
business, and if I happened to come upon a servant—bam! Face to the
wall she would go, flattening herself away from me. What do you say
to that? And why are you so protective of the British, anyway?
You're Irish, after all."

"I'm from the south," she said quietly.
"There is not the hostility there. In any case, Lady Meller was
always extremely kind to my family and me. I have no cause to
resent the English."

"Then why did you leave?"

Tess looked away. "Father is adventurous,"
she answered lamely. After a pause she added, "There was some
trouble. We had no choice."

"The fault could not have been yours," he
said gently.

"What difference does it make? If there
is
bad blood, it runs through all our veins. It will out; if
not now, then later." She reined herself in, too late.

"What a preposterous idea! I suppose it
comes from being Catholic, this sense of doom and gloom. Here you
are, a beautiful woman with a gentle manner and a thoughtful
mind—and yet, you seem to consider yourself worthless at best, a
possible rogue at worst."

"Not at all!"

"Why bother to deny it? You have let your
own good opinion of yourself be destroyed by the g
randes
dames
of Newport!"

"Ha. Not only by the women," she objected
good-naturedly.

"But
mostly
the women. They have the
power to grind their husbands to dust—men with the will and the
resources to buy and sell half the planet. Where does that leave
you
in their regard? I'll tell you: to them you're less than
human, an assembly of muscle and bone shipped to Newport for their
convenience, along with the china and the plate."

"I see." Her eyes glittered, glazed over
with tears. "And I suppose you are doing your utmost to raise my
sense of self- worth."

"Admittedly, that was my intention," he
said, suddenly conscious of his own vehemence. "I take it I've
failed?"

"All in all, I think I prefer Miss
Cornelia's cruelty to your kindness. But thank you for—well, for
nothing," she said, suddenly angry with him for pointing out what
every single day she tried to ignore. "Surely I'm keeping you? Is
there not a box somewhere for you to stand on, a speech to make, a
revolution to organize? That is, assuming you can find the time to
tear yourself away from your picnics and your paté. Good afternoon,
sir." She turned on her heel.

"Wait." He held her back, and his touch,
electrically intense, sent her spinning back to him.

"What? What do you want?"

"To prove that you are equal to the best
that Newport has to offer. You've accused me of being a dilettante,
a hypocrite. All right! Then give me a chance to redeem my words.
There is to be a servants' ball tomorrow night at The Ledge. Will
you let me take you to it?"

The invitation staggered her. She hedged her
answer. "A servants' ball? Like those we have on Boxing Day? Eh ...
I've never heard of one in America. And, eh-h, it isn't
Christmas."

"This is the Newport version," he said with
a grim smile. "Will you go?"

"I ... I don't know. I've heard nothing
about it—"

"Nor will you. It's a very exclusive, very
secret affair. In fact, I want you to tell absolutely no one about
this. There would be much hard feeling if you did."

A young woman's voice, clear, musical, edged
with impatience, rang out somewhere on the other side of the
hedges. "Edward! Oh Ed-ward! We give up. Come out, wherever you
are."

Hillyard ignored it. "Will you go, Tess?" He
held her by her wrist. The movement of his jaw, his short breath,
his furrowed brow—all belied his earlier, offhand manner.

"Ed-ward! Where are you
?"

"They'll find you here with me," she
whispered, aghast.

"Not in a million years. Yes or no
Tess?"

Her eyes dropped from his. "Yes, then."

"Excellent."

"But when—"

"I'll be in touch."

****

And he was, the next day. A small package,
addressed in a careless hand, came for Tess. The housekeeper
delivered it personally.

"How are you getting on with Miss Cornelia,
Tess?" asked Mrs. Bracken in a casual way.

If Mrs. Bracken didn't know, then Cornelia
Winward hadn't told her. "Very well indeed, Mrs. Bracken.
Splendidly."

"Marie leaves the day after next, does she
not? If Miss Cornelia feels, as apparently you do, that the term of
probation was a success, you will be moving into the bedroom next
to hers and will begin to take your meals in my room with the other
senior servants."

"Thank you, ma'am. I shall look forward to
it."

"And how are the family coming along?" the
housekeeper asked in a voice bristling with efficiency.

It seemed incredibly nervy of her to ask,
and Tess gave her a long, cool stare before answering in a soft
voice, "As well as can be expected, ma'am. These are hard
times."

"Yes. Well, I'm sure it's all for the
best."

"Mrs. Bracken, about tonight—" Tess said,
unsure how to begin.

"So you've already heard about the holiday?"
interrupted Mrs. Bracken, annoyed. "Gossip simply tears through
this house! Yes, you have the evening off. Miss Cornelia will not
return to Beau Rêve tonight. As for the ball, I'm against the whole
idea, from start to finish. It makes a mockery of our profession in
an age that can ill afford it."

"Do you think so, ma'am? I think it will
lift our spirits no end, especially coming as it does at the end of
a hectic season ..."

The housekeeper fixed Tess with a withering
look. "What an odd opinion!" And she left Tess thinking exactly the
same thing about her.

Back in her room Tess held the hastily
wrapped package in her lap as if it were a chest containing the
crown jewels. On the front was a five-word address:
Tess Moran,
Beau-Rêve, Newport.
No miss, no mademoiselle, of course; no
return name. Slowly, lovingly, Tess untied the string as if it were
gold braid, unwrapped the plain brown paper as if it were
handpainted. The letter was inside the box, under an exquisite
silver mask. Marveling, Tess put the mask aside and opened the
heavy linen sheet.