The Emerald Duchess (3 page)

1

In November, in the year 1814, as Margaret Nelson, lady’s maid, made her way to Number Twelve Charles Street, Mayfair, she suddenly recalled the promise she had made to herself in the churchyard by her mother’s grave, and her lips twisted in a wry smile.

It was true she had survived, but at a cost it was just as well she had not known would be required of her at the time. As she recalled the young innocent she had been, so sure of herself and so determined to make her own way in the world, she had to shake her head. Since that day she had been hungry, overworked, reviled by her employers, and ridiculed by her fellow servants. She had also been pursued, and it had taken more character than she had known she possessed not to give in to despair and take the easy way out.

Heaven knows she had had plenty of opportunities. She had expected that she might have trouble with the male servants she encountered, but she had not thought the nobility
—
the sons and brothers and even the husbands of her mistresses
—
might also consider her fair game. Indeed, it was because of the younger son of the family in Yorkshire that she had left her latest post. Not, she told herself as she avoided a crossing sweeper, that she was sorry to leave Oak Park. Her attic room, shared with three other maids, had been unheated in winter and stifling in summer, and the poor, scanty food left her constantly hungry. Her mistress, a young lady about to make her bow to society, had been spoiled and ill-tempered, and given to temper tantrums if she had to wait even a minute for her maid’s services. The nights Emily had dragged herself up to bed, her feet and ankles so swollen from fourteen or
fifteen hours of work that she could barely remove her shoes, were more than she cared to remember.

Emily paused in a doorway to consult the piece of paper in her hand. She hoped that this Lady Quentin she was going to be interviewed by was a kinder woman, and that she would get the job. She had made too many trips to the Free Registry for the Placement of Faithful Servants already, and her money was running low. If she did not get the position, she would have to look for cheaper lodgings. Bradley’s Hotel on Davies Street would be far from her touch.

At Number Twelve, an elderly butler showed her into a cheerful morning room to wait until Lady Quentin was ready to see her. It seemed a very long time before he reappeared to take her upstairs, a time Emily spent in fervent prayer.

She curtsied to the lady still reclining in bed, sipping her morning chocolate, and tried to take her measure in the brief second that was all she had before she had to lower her eyes in servility.

What she saw was a young woman with a slight, immature figure. She had light-brown hair that curled charmingly under her cap and a pretty if not a beautiful face. You would never have called her an Incomparable, and in the company of other more dashing ladies, she was sure to go unnoticed, but there was a great deal of sweetness in her expression and her large gray eyes were kind.

“How young you are,” she exclaimed, although she was not far from girlhood herself. “I am not perfectly sure—but then, of course—well, you may sit down. I do not have much time. How could I forget?”

After presenting her references, Emily took a straight chair near the fireplace, realizing that the question was not addressed to her. She hoped that the lady did not always speak in fragments, for it made it difficult to follow her. As Lady Quentin read her letters, Emily had a chance to inspect the dainty bedroom. It was decorated in shades of pink and rose, with deeper rose accents, from the hangings of the large four-poster, to the draperies and rug, the ruffled pillows and the striped upholstery of the chairs. Idly, she wondered what the lady’s husband was like. She could not imagine a man in this powder puff of a room.

Lady Quentin reread the letters before she put them down, then, with a slight smile, she asked Emily how old she was.
“For, Miss Nelson, you seem very young to have so many accomplishments. And I am used to an older maid—dear, dear Daffy!”

Before Emily could answer, a knock came at the door, and it was opened immediately by a large, handsome gentleman dressed in full regimentals. “There you are, sleepyhead, awake at last,” he said, striding quickly to the bed and sitting down to plant a careless kiss on Lady Quentin’s cheek. She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing, and Emily realized that she was much more attractive than she had at first appeared.

As for her husband, Emily saw with a sense of foreboding that he was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen. She prayed he was very much in love with his wife. In the delicate, feminine room, he appeared very tall and masculine. He was powerfully built from his broad shoulders to his long, muscular legs, and he sported a head of jet-black hair, a mustache to match, and the fresh complexion of the confirmed outdoorsman that complimented his soldierly bearing.

As he turned away from his wife, he caught sight of Emily, who rose and curtsied. “And who have we here, Alicia?” he asked.

“This is Miss Nelson. She has applied for the position as my maid to replace Daffy,” Lady Quentin said in her girlish voice, clasping his arm tightly and cuddling closer.

“Indeed? She is much better-looking than Daffy, pet. Have you engaged her?” the captain asked idly, little knowing he was striking fear into Emily’s heart.

“Not yet—I do not know—well, what do you think? I mean, she is so young, and even though her references are excellent—well, what does that prove? Besides, Daffy was a dear. I was so sorry she had to leave me because of her sister’s illness, for you know she has been with me ever since Mama decided it was time for me to have a maid.”

The captain put a large hand over his wife’s mouth. “Enough!
I
shall be late to headquarters if I stay to disentangle and answer all of that statement.” He unclasped her clinging hands and added as he rose, “I must be off, my love. Do what you think best, but you know the Racklin ball is only a week away, and you will certainly need a smart dresser for that. It is most important for me to stand well with Sir Reginald, especially now.”

“But, Tony,” Lady Quentin interrupted, “you have not told me why he is of such importance, and I do not understand—”

“It is nothing for you to worry your pretty head about, my dear. If you would please me, just be sure you look your most entrancing. Perhaps you should ask Bella to help you engage a maid; yes, that’s the ticket,” he added as Emily’s heart sank. “Bella will be glad to tell you what you should do.” With a wave and a blown kiss he was gone, even as the lady frowned at his last words and called after him, “But, Tony, when will you be home?”

But the captain did not reply, for both of them could hear him running downstairs and the sound of the front door slamming behind him.

All the light went out of Lady Quentin’s face as she sank back on her pillows with a little sigh. Catching sight of the letters of reference again, she returned her gaze to Emily’s face. “Bella, indeed! I suppose Tony is right, but somehow
...”
She frowned a little and added, “I cannot call you Nelson or Margaret, what shall I call you?”

Emily said nothing as the lady threw back her bedclothes. “Very well, never mind that now. Bring me my peignoir and we shall see how you dress me for luncheon with Lady Wilcox. She sets fashion: let us see if you can make me her equal. Not that I care especially what she thinks, but Tony insists I cultivate her.”

Emily quickly removed her pelisse and bonnet, wishing she had thought to bring her apron and cap with her as she helped Lady Quentin into the soft pink robe that lay across the foot of the bed. She followed the lady to her dressing room, noticing how very short she was. Emily herself was only of medium height, but Lady Quentin lacked several of her inches. She could not repress a gasp when she saw the dressing room, and the lady turned around, her eyes twinkling.

“Yes, it is unusual, is it not? Tony had his sister Bella design it for me as a wedding present. We have only been married six months, and I myself am not quite accustomed to it as yet.” She paused as if she were going to say more, and then she shrugged.

Emily gazed at the gilded tub, shaped like a shell and set on delicate clawed feet, the mirrored walls, and the velvet chaise and matching chairs. Even the ceiling was painted with a soft mural depicting the sky and some rosy clouds.

Lady Quentin threw open the doors of the wardrobe and selected an afternoon dress of dusty rose. “I shall wear this, I think, for it is new.”

Emily restrained another gasp, for she had never seen so many clothes. Row after row of morning dresses, afternoon ensembles, ball gowns, riding habits, and beautiful furs. Although every color of the rainbow was represented, pink and rose predominated.

“Tony likes me to wear pink, Nelly,” Lady Quentin explained, and Emily, her heart sinking at the thought of being addressed as Nelly, nodded her head. It appeared the lady called everyone by a diminutive, from her husband, Tony, right down to her lady’s maid. As she helped her to dress, Lady Quentin continued to chat. In spite of having to decipher some of her more tangled statements, Emily found herself warming to the young lady. She was just like a kitten, so open and playful, and when she squeezed Emily’s hand and declared she was more than pleased with her turnout, Emily was bold enough to ask the salary.

“I paid Daffy twenty-five guineas, and you shall have the same,” Lady Quentin said in a businesslike way. “And any time off whenever I do not need you, as well as every other Sunday afternoon, and a full day once a month.”

“That will be satisfactory, m’lady,” Emily agreed in relief, and as Lady Quentin was pulling on her gloves, she asked what other activities she was engaged in for today. At her look of surprise, Emily explained. “If I know what gowns you will require, I can be sure to have them ready for you. Then, too,
I
should like to fetch my baggage from my hotel in Davies Street and unpack at such a time as you do not need me.”

Lady Quentin nodded. “Come with me now, Nelly. The hotel is on my way, and you shall ride in my carriage so I can tell you my plans for the day. What a good idea! I am sure we will deal extremely together, and to think I imagined
—
well, I am just the silly goose that Tony calls me—and Bella,” she added, somewhat more tartly as she led the way downstairs.

Instructing the butler to have a room prepared for her new maid, she took the time to introduce them. “Nelly, this is Goody. He is a pet, and he has been with me since I was a child,” she said, smiling at the old man. As she swept by him to the front door, the butler looked at Emily and raised his eyes heavenward. Emily smiled in return.

The carriage was
modern
, and although the seats were cushioned in rose velvet, Emily was glad to see the exterior was painted buff and the two footmen were dressed in somber livery. All the way to Davies Street, Lady Quentin chattered without stopping. By the time Emily was set down at the hotel, her head was ringing. As near as she could make out, her new mistress would be home to change her clothes for a drive in the park with some friends of Captain Quentin, and then there was an evening reception at the Lovelaces’.

“Oh, and Tony promised to be home for dinner before that—the deep-rose satin, Nelly, and my diamonds, I think, and I do hope you have some cheerful gowns, I hate depressing colors. I absolutely forbid black, such a horrible color, don’t you think? It quite gives me the megrims to have anyone dressed in black near me.”

And then tomorrow she would require Nelly to attend her while she shopped. She had a fitting at Mme. Pauline’s, some perfume to be chosen at Croxton’s, a pair of sandals to be purchased at the Pantheon Bazaar, and a special gift for her husband that she wished to select at Dudley’s. He had mentioned how much he admired Lord Grant’s dress sword; she had determined that he should have one just as magnificent. Interspersed in this conversation were questions about Nelly’s former mistresses, where she had lived, and how she had learned her trade.

“Whew,” Emily said to herself as she reached her hotel room. This was going to be quite a change from her last job in Yorkshire, that was clear. In an hour she had packed, settled her bill, and hiring a hackney, was once again on her way to Charles Street.

The butler, who was quick to tell her his name was Mr. Goodwell, “not Mr. Goody, miss,” had a footman bring in her portmanteaus. Her trunk would come by carter later. He himself took her to the fourth floor, where the servants had their rooms. Emily was glad to see that her room already had a warming fire burning in the fireplace and the bed was covered with a cheerful quilt. The room was small, but there was a rug and, luxury of luxuries, a mirror over her dresser. Her spirits brightened considerably as she thanked him, and he offered to introduce her to his wife when she had unpacked.

“Mrs. Good well is the housekeeper. Of course, we keep a French chef.” Here Mr. Goodwell sniffed, letting Emily know he did not approve of employing foreigners, not when England had been at war with France for so long. “There’s the bell to call Nancy, the upstairs maid; she will fetch your water and tend the fire, miss.”

He bowed, with a dignity belying his nickname, and departed, leaving Emily to unpack and think how lucky she had been to get a position in this household. She had not finished when the bell rang to summon her, and stopping only to tie on her apron and cap, she went to attend her new mistress.

When Lady Quentin was safely bestowed on her gentlemen escorts and had left the house with one last lilting laugh, Emily went to seek out Mrs. Goodwell in hopes of a cup of tea. That lady was much more unbending than her husband, even introducing herself as Mrs. Goody, and over a good tea, she lost no time in telling Emily all about the household.

“Lady Quentin, now, she’s a new bride, and it’s a good thing she has me, I can tell you, Miss Nelson,” Mrs. Goodwell said, rocking comfortably. “No more sense than a baby, she has, although a sweeter young lady I never hope to see. The captain now, he knows what’s what, but he’s not home often.”

“Is he on duty a great deal?” Emily asked.

Mrs. Goodwell nodded. “You’d think, now that that nasty Napoleon has been exiled to that island—whatever is the name of it, I can’t recollect—the captain would have more time to spend with his wife, but Lady Quentin goes about without him. Of course, his sister, Miss Arabella, is here more often than not, but that’s not my idea of how to treat a bride. But there, I do hope she’ll be happy.”

Just then Mr. Goodwell came in, and his wife abruptly stopped gossiping. Emily thanked her for the tea and went back upstairs to lay out the deep-rose satin gown Lady Quentin planned to wear to dinner. Emily was busy in the dressing room when the bedroom door was thrown open and an author
it
ative voice cried out, “Don’t fuss, Goodwell! I shall just leave a note for Lady Quentin before I go, there is no need for you to escort me. Heaven knows I have been up here often enough.”

Emily came around the
corner
to see a dark-haired lady firmly shutting the door in the butler’s face.

“Old fussbudget,” she muttered, and then, catching sight of Emily, she said, “ ’Pon my soul, who are you?”

“I am Margaret Nelson, Lady Quentin’s new dresser, ma’am,” Emily replied with a curtsy.

“Indeed?” the lady asked as she removed her gloves, looking her up and down intently. “Now, why didn’t Alicia consult me before she took such a step? You are much too young—and much too pretty! But there, Alicia is such an unworldly baby, she probably never even considered that. By the way, I am Arabella Quentin, her sister-in-law.”

Emily curtsied again as the lady continued, “I suppose you had good references? I must assume you have all the necessary skills: hairdressing, sewing, cleaning clothes of stains and candle wax, and painting the face. However, to be sure, I give you a small test. What is virgin’s milk made from?”

Emily was indignant to be quizzed by an outsider, but since she was not sure of Miss Quentin’s role in the household, she thought it best to answer her as humbly as she could. “Tincture of benzoin mixed with water, miss,” she said. Emily had often prepared this mixture for her mother, for it gave a lovely rosy coloring to the complexion. “But if I may say so”—she waited until Miss Quentin inclined her head an inch—“I do not hold with the use of such cosmetics for a young lady. At Lady Quentin’s age such preparations are unnecessary, and to begin their use too early is to risk the most dangerous consequences: loose teeth, swollen eyes, and coarsened skin texture, to name but a few. I would never employ them on any one but an older lady well past her prime. The young need very little in the way of artifice to show them at their best.”

She stopped, for Miss Quentin was sputtering, and two bright-red spots burned high on her cheekbones under what Emily now saw was a heavy
maquillage.

“That will be quite enough! I am not interested in your insolent opinions,” the lady managed to get out as she went to sit down at a small writing table set against the wall. She then proceeded to ask several more questions about Emily’s past—where she was from and for whom she had worked
—
and Emily made herself answer in an even voice.

“Very well,” Miss Quentin said at last. “If you are not satisfactory, we can always discharge you. By the way, stay well away from my brother or you will be back in the street before you know it.”

Emily’s eyes flashed her indignation before she lowered them. Miss Quentin sneered, “Hoity-toity, girl! I am well aware of the morals of the lower classes. No better than animals, the lot of you.” She turned to the desk and then asked suddenly. “What salary is Alicia paying you?”

“Twenty-five guineas, miss.”

Miss Quentin snorted. “Just as
I
thought. I could have found her someone much more suitable, and with a more civil tongue in her head, for only fifteen.” She shook her head and drew a sheet of paper from the desk. “I shall write Lady Quentin a note. She has forgotten that we had an engagement to walk this afternoon. I take it she has gone to drive?”

“Yes, miss,” Emily said, setting her lips firmly.

“Well, speak up, girl. Was it with Lord Andrews?”

“And Mr. Ashe,” Emily admitted.

“I shall roast her for that,” the lady said, her grim tones at odds with the light statement as she began to pen a few lines.

Emily studied her carefully. She was above medium height and had her brother’s dark hair, high complexion, and aquiline features, but whereas these attributes made him such a handsome man, they did not become her as well. Indeed, besides being so determined and self-satisfied, she had a rigid cast to her features that was most unpleasant. She was older than her brother and seemed to have set her girlhood firmly behind her, along with any thought of matrimony.

“See that she gets this the minute she returns, girl,” the lady commanded, walking briskly to the door. “Does Lady Quentin still plan to attend the Lovelace reception tonight?”

“I believe so, miss,” Emily replied, curtsying as she accepted the note, and although she could have added that the captain planned to dine with his wife, she refused to volunteer any information to this unpleasant woman.

After Miss Quentin left, Emily went back to her work, thinking about her. Besides being rude and abrupt and prying into Emily’s past, there had been a forcefulness about her, an air of always knowing what was best, that put up Emily’s back. She was glad Miss Quentin was not an inmate of the house.

As soon as she heard Lady Quentin in the hall below, she rang for Nancy to bring some hot water and went out to greet her mistress, who was standing on the bottom step questioning Mr. Goodwell.

“You say the captain has not returned home, Goody? Well, no matter, I guess. I really did not expect
...”
She laughed a little and came lightly up the stairs to her room. As she undressed, she chatted gaily to her maid about her drive: whom she had seen, what her escorts had had to say, and whom she might expect to see at the evening’s reception. It was some time later, just as she was lying down and Emily was closing the drapes so she might rest before dressing for dinner, that she remembered the note from Miss Quentin.

“Oh, dear! How angry Bella must be with me,” Lady Quentin said in a failing voice. “I promised faithfully that this time I would not fail.”

Emily left her, wondering if such fluff-headed behavior was common to the lady. She began to think it would drive any husband mad to have to deal with it, to say nothing of her long-suffering friends
...
and servants.

It was very late before Lady Quentin returned from the Lovelace reception and called Emily to undress her. Promising to wake her mistress at eleven the following morning, Emily softly let herself out. Of the captain there was no sign, but she did not know if this was normal or not. It is none of my business, she told herself as she climbed the stairs to her room wearily. At least he had been present at dinner, along with two of his fellow officers, and Emily had heard from Mrs. Goody that Lady Quentin had been delighted with her husband and her guests. But when Emily brought down the lady’s sarcenet stole, Lady Quentin was just discovering that the captain was not going to accompany her to the reception. Emily thought her face shaded a little at this news, but she laughed gaily as the others thanked her for the delicious meal before they all went off to Brooks. Lady Quentin was left to ride in solitary state to her evening’s entertainment.

Emily herself had had a pleasant evening, meeting the rest of the servants at dinner. The food was excellent, thanks to the despised French chef. She noticed that Mr. Goodwell’s scruples did not extend to refusing a second helping of everything. Everyone chatted happily during their meal, from Nancy, the upstairs maid, to Perry, the youngest footman. Even the chef tried a few words in English as he pressed
Emily to try the turbot in wine sauce. She answered him in his own tongue, and his face lit up, loosening a torrent of French. As Emily looked around the table, she saw she had made a mistake, for the others were all staring at her. She hurried to tell them she had only a few words she had learned from a French
émigré
e
who was the dressmaker at her last employment, and promised herself to be more careful in the future. A lady’s maid had little education and certainly did not speak a foreign language, and Mrs. Goody had already remarked on her refined accent.

The days sped by, for Lady Quentin never seemed to be still. If she were not shopping or meeting friends, she was riding or attending a party. Emily wondered at this feverish activity, but she supposed it was preferable to sitting at home waiting for the captain to return. It certainly kept Emily busy, for sometimes Lady Quentin changed her clothes five or six times a day, and as Emily was seldom in bed before two in the morning, she was often weary. Lady Quentin might be a sweet-natured lady, but she was no more aware of her maid’s long hours than any other lady of fashion. Emily knew she would stare if it were brought to her attention. After all, she would reason, that was why she was paying her maid twenty
-
five guineas a year, was it not?

On her first full day off, Emily slept very late, luxuriating in her brief day of freedom. It was a beautiful late-fall day, and in high spirits she bathed and dressed in one of her best dark-green gowns and matching pelisse, deciding to go for a stroll in the park and enjoy the sunshine, the brisk air, and the throngs of people.

She was about to return to Charles Street late in the afternoon when she was accosted by a young Corinthian on the strut. Since she was unaccompanied, he assumed she was one of the muslin set, and he took her arm and began to murmur of the delights they could share.

Emily insisted he release her and tried to pull away, but before she succeeded, a gentleman on horseback reined in and intervened. Emily looked up from her struggles into a pair of cold black eyes that seemed somehow familiar. But perhaps it was the eyelids drooping with boredom, or the sardonic twist to that well-shaped mouth that reminded her of someone she had once known, she thought. He was a stranger, for she knew she would never forget such aristocratic good looks, such a well-tailored, powerful frame.

“I am sure I am correct in assuming that you do not care for the gentleman’s attention, miss,” he drawled in a deep, harsh voice. “Why it is not as obvious to him, I cannot say. You there, release the lady at once or be off with you before I lay about your worthless back with my whip.”

The beau complied immediately, backing away and apologizing, for there had been a quality to the order that told him the gentleman was used to command and expected instant obedience to his wishes. Emily was about to thank him, but before she could speak, he touched his hat and said, “Next time, bring your maid. It does not do for ladies of your quality to walk alone.”

He was gone on that statement, digging in his heels and cantering away, and Emily was left to smile a little ruefully at his instructions. Her maid, indeed!