Page 7 of Lady for a Season (Regency Outsiders)

Maggie was woken in the Wisteria Room by the curtains being opened. A maid she had never seen before was busy tying them back, before laying out the green muslin dress ready to be worn along with clean undergarments.

“Morning, Miss Seton,” she said when she saw Maggie’s eyes were open. “I’m Jane. I’ve brought up your water and Duval says she’ll be in to do your hair shortly. Duval says I’m to look after you as she must see to Her Grace first thing. I’m to learn how to look after a lady,” she added, sounding excited.

Maggie nodded without replying, fearful of saying the wrong thing. Evidently, Jane saw Maggie as a junior member of the family and a wonderful opportunity to better herself by progressing to the giddy heights of lady’s maid.

With Jane’s keen attentions, she was quickly washed and dressed, remembering to use the toothbrush and tooth powder as though she had always done so. The green muslin floated about her. She had to touch it to make sure it was real, it felt so light on her.

“It’s a sunny day,” said Jane anxiously, perhaps fearing that Maggie’s silence indicated displeasure. “I thought it would be warm enough for the muslin, seeing as it’s almost May. But I’ll fetch your shawl.”

“Thank you,” said Maggie, wanting to assuage Jane’s fears. “You have done very well,” she added encouragingly, and Jane beamed and bobbed her a curtsey.

“Thank you, Miss, I’ll do my best for you. I’ll brush your hair now, ready for Duval, she’s not yet taught me how to do hair.”

Celine arrived moments later and demonstrated a simple hairstyle for Jane’s benefit, the hair drawn up into a braided bun behind. “Miss Seton will have her hair cut when we go to London,” she said. “I will teach you to do ringlets at the front. For now, make sure the back is very smooth.”

“Yes, Duval.”

“Breakfast is ready, follow me, Miss,” Celine added to Maggie.

Breakfast meant sitting with the Duchess and Edward, which made everything feel stiff. Where Maggie and Edward had once toasted bread together before the fire while talking, or eaten hearty bowls of porridge, breakfast in the drawing room was an altogether different matter. There were four kinds of cake, a brioche, a seed cake, a honey cake and a plum cake, along with coffee, tea and hot chocolate. Maggie carefully helped herself to a slice of seed cake, before hesitating over the drinks. She had never drunk coffee or hot chocolate.

“May I pour you some hot chocolate? I think you will like it,” offered Edward.

She nodded gratefully and accepted the tall thin cup she was given, which sat in an odd saucer, with a raised circle in the centre to hold the cup more firmly in place. She took a small sip. It was like drinking a pudding, very thick and rich with spices and sugar, topped with a froth that vanished on her tongue. Edward caught her eye and smiled at her expression of amazed pleasure.

“I like it better than coffee myself,” he said, sitting beside her with his cup. The Duchess, sitting opposite them both, made no comment, only sipped her cup of tea.

“Send for Jenkins and Mrs Russ,” she told the footman who had been standing stiffly against a wall.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

He left the room and the Duchess leant forward and spoke rapidly. “Jenkins is the butler. Mrs Russ is the housekeeper. They must both see you now that you are fit to be seen and neither of them can know who you are, Margaret. I cannot allow more people to know what is happening.”

Maggie saw Edward’s shoulders tighten. Her chocolate cup trembled.

A man and a woman entered the room, both perhaps in their fifties. Jenkins had dark hair, Mrs Russ might have had red hair in her youth, but it had faded to a reddish brown. Maggie tried to stand up as they entered the room, but Edward grabbed at her hand, giving a tiny shake of his head.

“Jenkins, Mrs Russ,” said the Duchess. “His Grace has come home to take up his rightful position as master of Atherton Park.”

Jenkins bowed and Mrs Russ curtseyed. “Welcome home, Your Grace,” they chorused.

“May I say on behalf of all the staff how sorry we all are for your losses, Your Grace,” added Jenkins.

Edward nodded without replying.

The Duchess intervened. “We are also joined by Miss Margaret Seton. She is my third cousin once removed. Her father recently died and left her to my care. She will be living with us for the foreseeable future.”

They both bowed and curtseyed again, although not as deeply as for Edward, Maggie could see the degrees of importance accorded to them both. She dipped her head in response, trying to emulate Edward’s slow, gracious movements.

“That will be all,” said the Duchess. “Send for Duval and Joseph.” Jenkins and Mrs Russ left the room.

Celine and Joseph appeared moments later, and the Duchess turned to the other footman. “You may go, Bartholomew. We are not to be disturbed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The door safely shut behind him, the Duchess turned her gaze on Maggie.

“Stand up and curtsey.”

Maggie did so.

“Don’t bob like that. That’s how a maid curtseys. Slower. Slower than that. Never mind, you will have to practise. Sit down.”

Maggie sat, feeling thoroughly inadequate.

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said Maggie, offended at being considered illiterate.

“You call me Aunt Caroline,” the Duchess corrected her coldly. “You must practise, or you will slip up. You will write a sample so that I can assess your handwriting. Can you dance?”

“No.”

“Play an instrument?”

“No, but –”

“Draw?”

“No.” Drawing lessons had been reserved for the boys at the Foundling Hospital, in case it should help them with future trades.

“Can you ride a horse?”

“No.”

“Sew?”

Maggie was relieved. At the Foundling Hospital she’d been one of the best sewers, her stiches neat and even, her mending and darning invisible. “Yes,” she said firmly.

The Duchess narrowed her eyes. “Plain sewing or embroidery?”

“Plain.”

The Duchess sighed.

“I can do netting,” said Maggie, stung at having her skills so obviously dismissed.

“Well, that is something at least. Duval, you will provide threads and beads for Miss Seton so that she can do netting. She can start by making herself a reticule. And you will teach her embroidery. Meanwhile you will prepare a sample of embroidery she can have with her when company are present, that will make it appear that she is working on something.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“She has a beautiful voice,” said Edward.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Margaret… Cousin Margaret has a wonderful singing voice.”

The Duchess raised her eyebrows.

“You would do well to make the most of it, if you want her to appear accomplished,” said Edward. “You are determined to think poorly of her, but you are making a mistake.”

The Duchess gave a cold nod, then continued addressing Joseph as though she had not been interrupted. “Tell the stables to find a horse for Miss Seton and have her taught to ride, she must begin at once.” She paused and Maggie thought she saw her swallow. “His Grace will also need a suitable mount, for use both here and in London.”

Joseph, too, seemed reluctant in his response. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Both avoided looking at Edward, and he stayed silent.

“Very well,” said the Duchess, after a long pause. “I will hire drawing and dancing masters, and a singing instructor. They will have their work cut out to have you both ready for society in only four months.” She turned to Celine and Joseph. “You will assist their education in whatever form is necessary, be it the need for a dancing partner or informing Miss Seton when she does not behave in a manner befitting a lady.”

Maggie’s handwriting was reluctantly passed by the Duchess as acceptable, and their days began to take shape. Upon rising, they were dressed by Jane and Joseph, made their way to breakfast, allowed a brief walk in the gardens, then began their education for the day, continuing until past midday, when they would eat a simple repast, before recommencing lessons until late in the afternoon. They were allowed very little free time.

“If you are unoccupied at any time, you will take up your embroidery,” insisted the Duchess.

Maggie carried a small bag containing her silks and other embroidery needs with her at all times. Luckily her neat stiches in plain sewing meant that her cross-stitch came along well enough to complete a sampler that was not considered disgraceful, after which Celine set about teaching her other styles of embroidery, which Maggie took well to, stitching leaves, flowers, water and birds in ever increasing complexity. She often found herself taking it up when servants were in the room, for their endless presence made her anxious. Having spent their entire lives around the nobility, surely they would take one look at her and know her for a maid?

“They will judge me,” she confided to Celine, but Celine shook her head.

“They feel sorry for you. They think you were brought up without much money and now must find your way in a grand house with the Duchess as your aunt criticising you. They do not whisper anything else about you.”

“And Edward?”

“They are glad to have Edward home. Atherton Park needs a master, and his father was not always… kind.”

Only a few days went by before Celine had Maggie try on a new article of clothing.

“It is a riding habit, Old John the stablemaster has said he has a horse for you and will bring it round the day after tomorrow.”

The dress Celine was offering was different to what Maggie had worn so far, a stiff woollen dress with long sleeves in a deep red, far wider and longer in the skirt than any of her other dresses.

“It leaves room for you to sit in the saddle without any impropriety,” said Celine, speaking through the pins held in her mouth. “It is too big, but it will do while you learn.”

The morning came and Joseph summoned Maggie to the front door, where a groom was standing with a chestnut mare. Edward stood behind her, framed in the doorway, unwilling to come any closer.

“Morning Miss,” the groom said. “Old John chose Lacey himself, he says she’s a gentle one, just right for a lady to learn on.”

The saddle had two padded pommels, one pointing straight up, the other curving to one side.

“You’ll ride with your legs to the left, Miss, unless you’ve already learnt to ride to the right?”

“I’ve not learnt to ride at all,” protested Maggie.

“Left boot in my cupped hands, Miss, then when I do say ‘Up,’ I shall lift, and you must spring up so I can lift you up onto the saddle.”

Maggie tried to follow the instructions.

“Up.”

She tried to push herself upwards as the groom lifted, but she was a little behind him and so instead of a smooth spring upwards, there was a lift followed by a jump when the lift had already lost its power. Instead of finding herself in the saddle, she was pushed against the horse, which stepped away, leaving her stumbling, one foot still held by the groom, now exposing too much of her leg, almost to the knee. He quickly let go of her foot.

Several more clumsy attempts were made, with Maggie’s cheeks growing flushed with embarrassment at nearly falling into the groom’s arms, when Edward stepped forward.

“Let me help.”

“But Your Grace…”

But Edward had already approached Maggie and was holding out his cupped hands for her foot.

“I don’t think I am very able,” gasped Maggie, feeling foolish.

“Of course you are. Your foot,” insisted Edward.

She placed her left foot in his hands, her right hand on the horse’s back.

“Up.”

She sprang and this time she and Edward were perfectly in synchrony, his lift giving her spring power, and she was suddenly solidly in the saddle, Edward guiding her foot so that her right knee wrapped round one part of the pommel, her left leg snug beside it, held in place with the second part. The excessive folds of the riding habit had maintained her dignity throughout the movement, now spreading out around her so that only the tips of her boots stuck out from the fabric.

Relieved, she looked for Edward, but he had already retreated to the steps. His hands, she saw, were shaking.

“That’s it,” said the groom encouragingly. “And now hold the reins. Like this.” He demonstrated, then passed them to her to hold, which she did, awkwardly.

“Not so tight,” he said. “Don’t pull. Elbows down and in and I’ll take you for a walk.”

“I don’t –” began Maggie, but the groom had already led the horse forwards on a leading rein, and it took all her concentration to balance, tightening her thighs around the twin pommels, trying not to tighten the reins out of fear. But as the swaying of the horse’s slow plod continued, she relaxed. She was taken round the grounds for a brief walk, then returned to the front door, where Edward, smiling, watched her dismount, which she managed, although she landed ungracefully, stepping on her long skirts.

The lessons continued daily, and after the first few Maggie learnt to get into the saddle with the groom’s assistance, rather than Edward’s.

“Just as well,” said Edward, “I think the ton would be horrified to see a duke acting as a groom, don’t you?”

“Won’t you join me for a ride?” she asked.

But he hung back, face uncertain. Meanwhile, she learnt to trot and canter, although she was too afraid to gallop as yet.

The drawing master who had been hired was a delicate young man, whose worn shoes and shabby clothes indicated he badly needed this work. He was clearly overwhelmed to have a Duchess’ family member to instruct, bowing and scraping to not just the Duchess but also Maggie.

“My niece’s education has been sadly neglected,” said the Duchess when he arrived. “She has not been given drawing lessons and yet she will need to demonstrate some basic accomplishments in polite society. There will not be time for her to learn everything she should already have mastered, so I would suggest that you limit your instruction to botany. Teach her to draw and paint flowers, that will be enough.”

“As Your Grace sees fit,” stammered the young man, flustered in her presence, dropping paper and paintbrushes onto the library floor.

Maggie knelt to help him collect them while the Duchess raised her eyes to the heavens and swept out of the room, leaving Celine and Edward as chaperones.

Once she had gone, the drawing master grew in confidence, taking a few flowers from the ornate display on a nearby table and showing Maggie the shape and texture of the stems and leaves, how to consider where the light was coming from, and which part of the image should be shaded. By the end of their first hour together, Maggie had sketched a tolerably good iris. To make rapid progress, it had been decided that the drawing master should stay for three weeks, sleeping in the servants’ quarters, and that Maggie should receive three hours a day of instruction, exclusively focused on sketching and painting flowering plants. A large portfolio, bound in a patterned green paper, had been provided for her to keep her better works in.

“But who would ask to see them?” she asked the Duchess at breakfast the next day.

“All young ladies keep examples of their accomplishments near at hand,” said the Duchess. “When making calls to the house, ladies and gentlemen may ask how you have been entertaining yourself and that is your cue to indicate a sampler of embroidery or your drawing portfolio, which visitors may ask to examine. It is only civility on their part of course,” she added with a sniff. “Few people have any real interest, but it is part of polite conversation, and you cannot have nothing to show should they ask. That would look most peculiar.”

Edward watched as Maggie bent to her work. This absurd concoction of lies was part of everything he had disliked about life at Atherton Park and in London. Perhaps Maggie was being instructed in haste, but was she really unlike all the young ladies of the ton , after all, who were no different except that they had been practising their accomplishments since they could walk? Were they not all engaged in the same falsehood? Edward doubted any of them were fascinated by netting or embroidery. Perhaps a few truly did enjoy drawing or music, but he remembered his father saying that young ladies only displayed their accomplishments until they were married and then forgot all about them, which hardly indicated a true interest on their part.

Later that day, before the evening meal was served, Joseph took Maggie into the dining room, where he explained the tableware, glassware, seating arrangements and where guests should be seated according to rank.

“I’ll never remember all that!”

“You won’t have to remember all of it, your hostess will already have thought of it, and the footmen will pour into the correct glass, but you must remember the silverware at least. Let’s begin. This is a sugar sifter, which you would use on your berries. Sugar tongs would be used for lumps of sugar in your tea.”

Maggie nodded.

“Now spoons. This is a berry spoon, this is a marrow scoop, that is a salt spoon and next to it a mustard spoon. This one is your soup spoon and this one a dessert spoon.”

And so it went on, while suppers continued to be the worst part of the day, stiffly formal, eaten mostly in silence, which at least allowed Maggie to silently practise her spoons and knives in her head, even while her earlobes throbbed painfully from Celine’s ruthless piercing of them with a needle so that she might wear earrings.

Prayers on a Sunday took place in Atherton Park’s chapel, a beautiful space where morning sunshine lit up the carved plasterwork of the arched ceiling. The tall columns were painted the same dark blue as the carriages, while the pews were a delicate pale shade of the same colour, with a beautifully tiled floor. At first Maggie found sitting in the front pew alongside the Duchess and Edward odd, but after a few weeks she grew used to it. After the sermon, they would leave first, to the bobs and bows of the entire staff who were gathered there for prayers, over two hundred each week, making the chapel seem like the church in a small village. As soon as the first Sunday was over, the Duchess had Maggie registered as an inhabitant of the local parish. Maggie had expected this to be difficult, but the vicar recorded her false name without question.

In all their morning walks Edward always led them to the left.

“If you leave the house and walk to the right,” Maggie asked Celine one morning, “what do you come to?”

Celine thought. “Gardens. Then the lake.”

“Nothing else?”

“The stable block is that way too.”

“Is it close by?”

“Yes, but hidden behind a copse by the house. Most stable blocks are set out of view, but they need to be close at hand for when a carriage or horse is sent for.”

Maggie nodded. She thought about Edward’s fear of horses, how he had helped her mount because she was struggling, but also how quickly he had retreated once she was safely in the saddle, his shaking hands. She remembered, too, how first the Duchess and then Joseph had been uncomfortable when discussing Edward’s need for a horse to ride.

Later that day, Joseph summoned her to review her table etiquette skills, but once alone in the dining room she grasped the opportunity to find out more.

“Why does Edward not like to ride?” she asked.

Joseph looked away. “Some gentlemen are not fond of the hunt,” he said.

“It is more than that,” she persisted.

Joseph sighed. “His Grace had… an experience when he was younger, which…”

“Which what?”

“He liked to ride well enough,” said Joseph, speaking fast as though to get the story over and done with. “He had a pony, a dappled grey he called Pigeon. He loved that pony, rode it all over the estate, had a good seat, after a while he didn’t even need a groom with him. But his father insisted he should have a real horse, a larger one and Edward didn’t want to change, he wanted to keep his little pony, even though he was getting too big for it. You’ve seen his long legs.” He stopped.

“And?”

“And his father had Pigeon shot in front of him. Said if he wouldn’t give him up, he’d take him away and Edward would have no choice but to get a full-size horse.” He swallowed. “There was blood spattered on Edward’s face. He fainted.”

Maggie gaped at him in horror.

“How could he be so cruel?”

“The Duke was a hard man. He had no tenderness to him, and he tried to stamp out any sign of it he saw in Edward. He did not value virtues such as gentleness or kindness, he thought them weak, fit only for women. Pigeon was only one such occasion, there were plenty of others, but that is the reason why Edward is fearful of horses. It is not because he cannot ride or is afraid of them as animals. He was an excellent rider but after that day he would shake if he was around them and when his father tried to make him mount another horse he screamed. That was when they sent him away to boarding school.”

“At least he was away from his father.”

“You would think so. But he was broken by then already and boys in such schools… they are brought up to rule, to spot the weak within their ranks and toss them aside. They tormented him. He would come home in the holidays weeping, begging his mother not to send him away again and every time he grew more desperate until he tried to drown himself in the lake and after that… they sent him to Ivy Cottage.”

Maggie sank onto one of the dining chairs, legs grown weak beneath her. “Their own son?”

“Doctor Morrison told them what they wanted to hear: that he was mad, a lunatic, that he could be taken off their hands and either cured or simply kept away, a secret.”

“Didn’t anyone ask after him?”

“The spare? No. The heir was loud and visible enough in society, so they said Edward had gone to some school in Scotland, I believe. When he was old enough to have left school, they changed their story to say that he was at university, then fond of astronomy, that he was travelling, that he was… who knows? Who cared? No-one. By then his older brother was dashing about London with every pretty miss and her mama trying to secure him as a husband and every young rake trying to cheat him at cards. Who would even recall that there was a younger son?”