At the first ball of the new season, Nathaniel saw Miss Macy and immediately requested a dance. She happily agreed, and the two began a courtship that lasted for many weeks. She seemed to enjoy his company, allowed him to escort her in to supper, and received him with pleasure when he paid the requisite call the next morning. All seemed to be going swimmingly.
But then Lewis returned.
Nathaniel slid the watercolor back into the book and closed it with a snap. He had no wish to think about what had happened after that.
In 1770, a British law was proposed to
Parliament granting grounds for annulment if a
bride used cosmetics prior to her wedding day.
—Marjorie Dorfman, “The History of Make-up”
Chapter 14
In Helen Upchurch’s room a few days later, Margaret lifted the lid from a partially used jar of cold cream pomatum and inspected its contents. The cream had an unusual greyish cast. She took a tentative sniff and jerked her head back. Rancid. How long had it been since Helen had any new cosmetics? No wonder she used the soap made right there in the Fairbourne Hall stillroom, drying to a lady’s complexion though it was.
Hester would know what to do. Margaret let herself from the room and down the back stairs.
Margaret had tinkered with homemade cosmetics as a girl, when she had been in a hurry to grow up even though her mother had deemed her too young for cosmetics. In the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge the indulgent Mrs. Haines had allowed her to mix a little vegetable rouge tinted with red carmine. Also a little pot of lip color made of wax, almond oil, and alkanet. She had helped Mrs. Haines prepare pearl water to help Margaret combat the blemishes of youth, and a chamomile hair rinse to brighten her blond hair.
Of course, all this had been years ago, and she did not recall the ingredients or mode. After Margaret’s coming out, her mother had approved a few prepared cosmetics, purchased from an apothecary or modiste. So much easier and packaged so prettily: Rose Lip Salve, Pear’s Liquid Blooms of Roses, and Gowland’s Lotion. But Margaret believed that with a bit of help, she could manage cold cream pomatum and perhaps an oil of rosemary hair tonic for Miss Helen as well. She wondered if she might sneak a bit of walnut juice into the tonic to gently cover Miss Helen’s greying strands. Her mother’s maid used just such a concoction to keep grey at bay.
Thinking of hair color, Margaret wondered, not for the first time, if she ought to forgo the wig altogether and dye her hair instead. Once done, her day to day life would certainly be easier and more comfortable. Her risk of discovery so much decreased. But for every advertisement in the London newspapers touting the various nostrums available for darkening one’s hair or returning it to the glossy shades of youth, there were also warnings about the ill effects of their ingredients—salts of iron or carbonates of lead.
Even without such warnings, Margaret would be loath to dye her hair. It seemed so extreme, so permanent. What if her hair never returned to the fair color she prized? She needed to remain brunette for only a few months, a fortnight of which had passed already. She decided she could put up with the wig a little longer.
When she reached the stillroom, Hester greeted her with her usual cheer. “Hello, love.”
“Hello, Hester. The mistress’s cold cream pomatum has gone rancid. Help me make more?”
“With pleasure. Why, I can’t remember the last time we mixed up somethin’ for Miss Upchurch. Long overdue on other things too, I’d wager.”
Hester pulled down a thick green leather volume from one of the shelves. “It’s been so long, I’d best check the measures. . . .” She flipped the creased, oil-stained pages.
“Here we are. One ounce oil of sweet almonds, half a drachm each of white wax and spermaceti, with a little balm.”
Hester began bustling about the stillroom, opening drawers and reaching up to shelves to gather tools and ingredients. She instructed Margaret to melt the almond oil, wax, and whale oil in a glazed pipkin over hot ashes in the hearth. Margaret did so. Then she poured the mixture into a marble mortar. Hester handed her a pestle, and with it, Margaret pressed and stirred the cream until it was smooth and cool.
“Orange flower or rose water, do you think?” Hester asked.
She recalled Helen relishing the scent of the roses she’d put in her room. “Rose, if you have it.”
“Indeed I do.”
While Margaret continued to stir, Hester drizzled in rose water for fragrance.
Hester returned to her book and read, “ ‘This cold cream pomatum renders the skin at once supple and smooth. If not meant for immediate use, the gallipot in which it is kept should have a piece of bladder tied over it.’ ”
Margaret knew apothecaries tied wet pig bladders over their pots of ointments and nostrums, because as the bladders dried they shrunk, forming an airtight seal. Margaret quailed. She didn’t relish the thought of touching pig parts.
“I’d like Miss Helen to be able to use it right away.”
“Then a parchment cover will do.”
Margaret waited until the next morning to carry up the cold cream pomatum to Helen’s room. She uncovered the pot and set it on the washstand without comment. She did not want Helen to notice her delivering it and mention it to Mrs. Budgeon, nor to further rouse Fiona’s ire if word got around that Nora had usurped yet another of Betty’s rightful roles. She walked briskly into the dressing room to set it to rights and find a few more hairpins.
Miss Upchurch stirred in her bed, and Margaret guessed Betty would be in any moment to help her dress. Margaret wished Helen would wear something besides the grey, dull gold, and brown day dresses or the dark burgundy evening gown. She ran her fingers over the garments in Helen’s wardrobe, noticing a lovely ivory-and-green walking dress she had never seen Helen wear. On closer inspection she discovered the likely cause: two buttons were missing and the holes themselves were frayed.
Margaret carried the dress into the bedchamber.
Helen, washing her face and hands in the basin, looked up. “Morning, Nora.”
“Morning.” She hesitated. “Miss Upchurch?”
“Hmm?”
“This walking dress is missing a few buttons. Do you mind if I take it and repair it this afternoon?”
“If you wish to.”
“Thank you, I do. Betty and Fiona sew in the afternoons when their other duties are done, and I think I shall join them.”
Helen pressed a hand towel to her face. “Very well.” She lifted the pot of pomatum. “This cold cream smells wonderful. It must be new.”
“Yes.” Margaret quickly changed the subject. “Did your lady’s maid keep a tin of buttons somewhere about?”
“I don’t know. Betty might. If you cannot find any to match, perhaps you might walk into Weavering Street. There is a little shop there where Miss Nash often bought ribbons and buttons and things.” Helen pulled a few coins from the reticule on her dressing table and handed them to Margaret. “You may tell Mrs. Budgeon I sent you.”
“Thank you. If I find we already have spares to suit, I shall return the money.”
Helen waved the assurance away. “I trust you, Nora.”
Margaret hesitated at that remark, looking at Helen to see if she’d realized what she’d said, and if she had meant it. “Do you?” she asked softly.
Slowly, Helen lifted her head and for a moment the two women simply looked at one another. Then Helen said, “Yes. Oddly enough, I find that I do.”
Margaret’s throat tightened. She whispered, “Thank you.”
Gown over her arm, Margaret turned and walked to the door. When she reached it, Helen added, “Don’t make me regret it.”
That afternoon, Margaret found Fiona and Betty already seated in the sunny attic room that had once been the domain of the lady’s maid before her retirement. It was a spacious room, larger than Betty’s superior room and twice the size of Margaret’s, with a dress form in the corner, an ironing board, bolts of cloth in an open cupboard, a worktable in the center, and a bare bed along one wall.
They stopped talking as soon as she entered, which gave Margaret the uneasy sense they’d been talking about her. She forced a smile. “May I join you?”
Fiona eyed her warily, but Betty answered, “Of course, Nora. Always more mending to be done.”
Fiona’s lip curled. “Looks like she’s brought her own work.”
“I have. Miss Upchurch’s gown is missing a few buttons.”
Betty’s face puckered wistfully. “Asked you to do it, did she?”
Margaret shook her head. “Actually, Miss Upchurch specifically told me to ask you, Betty, if we have a tin of buttons where replacements might be found. She said if anyone would know, it was Betty.”
Betty’s round eyes widened. “Did she, now?”
Margaret nodded. She hoped she would be forgiven the slight exaggeration. Judging by Fiona’s smirk, that seemed unlikely.
Betty rose and hurried over to the cupboard, pulled open a drawer, and extracted a round tin. “Here are the spare buttons. I don’t believe I have seen any what would match those exactly, but . . . let’s have a look, shall we?”
“Thank you, Betty. Miss Upchurch was right—you were the person to ask.”