The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)(12)

       
           



       

"Do you think she was perhaps shocked by the dreadful occurrence in Paris?" Isabella asked.

"I think Sir Anthony was more shaken by that, poor thing," said Lady Winter. "It must be terrible to kill a man by accident."

"Indeed, he reminds me of my poor dear Frederick," sighed Charlotte.

Her companions stared at her. They had all known poor dear Frederick, and someone less like the baronet would be hard to imagine. Diminutive in stature and personality in life, he had been elevated to greatness only in his widow's mind.

"In what way, Charlotte?" asked Clarissa kindly, before Lady Winter could say something tactless.

"He also abhorred killing of any sort. And he was once challenged to a duel, in his youth."

"Was he?" said Lady Winter, wondering if he had perhaps stood on a box to fight his challenger. "What happened?"

"I don't know," replied Charlotte sadly. "He would not talk about it. He said duelling was not a fit subject for feminine ears."

This was most unsatisfactory, thought Lady Winter. One should not embark upon a potentially interesting story unless one could finish it.

"Yet he rode to hunt on his little horse, did he not? He could not have abhorred killing that much," she retorted spitefully.

Charlotte had never thought about the connection between the sport of hunting, and killing, before. She fluttered, confused.

"Perhaps Beth has realised the consequences of her flighty actions," Isabella interposed hurriedly, "and has been persuaded to behave in a more restrained manner. She did have a rather free childhood. And Sir Anthony is such a refined man. It would be impossible to live with him for any length of time and not be influenced by him."



This was true, although she was not being influenced in quite the way that Isabella envisaged. Beth was, of necessity, learning the arts of duplicity and manipulation, and was currently attempting to use them in as altruistic a way as possible. Anne, having been manipulated into a chair at Sarah's slowly flourishing beauty house, was gazing shyly at herself in the looking glass.

"It's amazing!" she said breathlessly, raising a timorous hand to the shining brown confection of hair piled elaborately on top of her head, about a third of which was her own, the rest consisting of padding and hairpieces. But it appeared to be all her own, which was the main thing. "How did you do it?" she asked.

With a great deal of skill and effort, Sarah's expression said.

"It is not difficult, when one has such lovely raw material to work with. Your hair is very lustrous." And thin, and mousy coloured. "Now," she continued, "we must see what we can do to enhance your beauty."

"Oh, I could never make any claims to beauty," Anne said. "Indeed, Mama always said she could never understand where my plainness had come from, as both she and her sister were quite lovely."

Beth could have killed Mrs Maynard on the spot, were she not already dead.

"Papa said it was a blessing that I was ugly, because of course, both being infirm, they needed someone to look after them and my lack of looks ensured that I would not be tempted away from my duty by a procession of suitors." There was no trace of sadness or self-pity in Anne's voice. She was merely stating facts, had accepted her fate as an ugly spinster. Well, she can just unaccept it, the three women standing around her thought.

Sarah reached for the glass pots in which she kept her cosmetics.

"Oh no!" cried Anne. "I never wear paint. Great-uncle Bartholomew says that only harlots wear paint."

"I do not intend to use it in the way your uncle means," Sarah said, tipping two small carmine balls into a dish and expertly pulverising them to powder with a spoon. "Excessive use of paint only makes you look ridiculous." She caught Beth's eye and repressed a laugh with difficulty. Sir Anthony did look ridiculous. "But a little subtle use of creams to bring a becoming colour to the cheeks and lips and enhance the beauty of your eyes is a different matter altogether. If you do not like it, you can wash it off immediately."

"Well, I don't know," wavered Anne.

"Your eyes are a lovely shade of hazel," continued Sarah, adding a quantity of pomad and briskly stirring. The powder slowly dissolved into the wax and rosewater mixture, producing a smooth crimson cream. The three women watched, fascinated. "What colour is your gown for the evening?" Sarah asked.

"Brown," said Anne.

"Green," said Caroline and Beth together.

Anne looked up at them, perplexed.

"It was to be a surprise," Beth said. "But you might as well know now. We have purchased a dress for you. It is a present. For your birthday."                       
       
           



       

"But my birthday is not until July," Anne said. "I couldn't possibly accept such a gift. I have not the means to reciprocate … "

"You had better take it up with Anthony then," said Beth, knowing Anne would never have the temerity to tackle him. "He bought it, and will be most disappointed if you reject his kind gesture."

Crushed by the formidable army ranged against her, Anne subsided, defeated. So defeated that when she later tried on the beautiful green dress with its gold lace trimming, she uttered barely a murmur when it was discovered that the hem was exactly three inches too long, and there being no time to alter it, Caroline helpfully produced a pair of soft green leather shoes with heels of exactly three inches. Anne slipped them on without complaint, and engaged with looking in the mirror, missed the twin triumphant expressions on Caroline's and Beth's faces. The final test was yet to come. What would a masculine eye make of her?



"Bloody hell!" said Edwin, as Anne gingerly made her way down to the Harlows' hallway, terrified of plummeting headlong down the stairs in the unaccustomed heels.

"My darling Anne, what a vision you are!" trilled Sir Anthony, as Edwin coloured under his wife's glare. "You look quite beautiful."

She looked down, blushing, fingering the expensive silk of her dress with reverence.

"Oh, Sir Anthony, I really cannot … " she began.

"I am deeply honoured that you agreed to accept my small gift. It becomes you so, and brings out the colour of your eyes to perfection." He threw an I-told-you-so smirk at his wife, who smiled back. He was right. Anne's eyes were hazel. But the final victory would be hers and Caroline's. She was sure of it. Edwin's reaction had told her that.

So did the response of everyone at the ball who was already acquainted with Anne, when they arrived. Beth had willingly surrendered her husband's arm to her protégée, knowing that if Anne were to suddenly panic or try to flee under the attention she was bound to receive, he not only had the tact, but also the strength to restrain her and soothe her, without causing a scene.

Once she was safely ensconced in the room, and the initial stunned reaction of her acquaintance had subsided, Sir Anthony and Edwin abandoned the women, and as promised, retired with Lord Redburn.

The evening wore on. Anne, smothered in compliments and unaccustomed attention, blossomed. Her small eyes, made to look larger by Sarah's skill, aided by a few drops of atropine, shone. Her thin lips, made more full by the expert application of rouge and gloss, smiled happily. She looked, not beautiful, her mother had been right in that she could never be that, but attractive. Definitely attractive.

At precisely one a.m., an hour earlier than normal, Lord Redburn made his appearance. His cheeks were flushed and he limped when he walked, but that was due to the gout and high blood pressure rather than inebriation. Sir Anthony and Edwin, impressed by the herculean efforts of their wives, had clearly played their parts to perfection. The lord made his way directly to the trio. The ladies stood and curtsied as he approached.

"You are already acquainted with my wife and Lady Elizabeth Peters," Edwin said, thereby making sure Redburn knew to which lady he was to address his attentions. "Allow me to introduce Miss Anne Maynard." She curtsied again, blushing scarlet. Lord Redburn beamed, but did not speak. It was clear he found her attractive, but not overly so. Really, he ought to look in a mirror, Beth thought crossly. Why did ugly men think they would be attractive to beautiful women? There was a silence.

"Miss Maynard has only recently entered society, my lord," said Beth. "She is living with her relatives, Lord and Lady Winter, following the tragic death of her parents. She nursed them both for many years, through a number of illnesses. Including the gout."

"Really?" Lord Redburn said, looking at Anne with new interest. "And what means did you employ to relieve the symptoms?"

"Well, we found the milk and … " Anne began.

"Miss Maynard told me that briskly rubbing the affected limbs with a linen cloth was most efficacious," Beth interrupted hurriedly.

"A woollen cloth," Anne corrected timidly. "Yes, Papa found it brought him relief from the pain, as it helps to dissipate the humours, bunches and knots, which otherwise become fixed in the joints."