Tight Laced (5 page)

Lacy woke to the sound of a crow outside her window. Its sharp caw-caw, a warning. She ran to the glass and noted the thick grey cloud of winter hovering on the horizon. Why, it was merely October! Where was the clear sky? The turning leaves? In was as if the season had leapt ahead – the earth turned errantly whilst she’d slept.

A chill bore up her spine and out to her fingertips. She hugged herself, turned from the window, and then pulled the tartan plaid lap blanket off of her father’s portrait. Looking at her father’s kindly blue eyes, his strong chin, she nearly collapsed in a wave of grief.

“Papa,” she whispered. “How can I go on without you? Without your warm demeanor and the winks you give me when I scowl and lament the small indignities of every-day life?”

She ran her fingers over the portrait of her dear father. Over his whiskers, his rich mane of white hair. He’d been such an honest, forthright man. Loved by all. Without him in this house, the walls were cold and unyielding. Yes, it was fitting that the clocks still claimed the time to be near midnight.

The crow cawed once more, and then a thud against the glass. Lacy jumped, spun round, and watched the crow slam into the window twice, thrice, before flapped away. An omen? She knew not. But what she did know was, the day stretched before her as one bleak, unending cloud.

She felt the swell of tears again. Her dear father passed. Her mother dead as well. And now, she had even lost the lock of hair that she’d kept close all these years.

Her heart was heavy, and her limbs, dead wood. Grief settled in her bones like iron balls. She turned from her father’s portrait, set on enduring the long, dark day, when there was a rapid knock upon her door.

“Enter,” she called.

It was Tansom, and she bustled in as though followed by a startled nest of honeybees. “M’lady, m’lady,” she gasped, only coming to a halt to catch her breath. The woman must have leapt up all four flights of stairs.

Lacy held her hands out in front of her, and latched on to those of her maid, squeezing hard. “What is it?”

“Oh, it’s terrible news. Terrible!”

“Well, my goodness, out with it then.”

“It’s all over the post. A terrible disaster in the North. A special messenger delivered a note just now.”

“But what business do we have with the North?”

“Oh, m’lady, that poor man. The duke. He’s ruined. Ruined!”

Lacilia’s heart picked up a pace. Of course! How rude of her to forget that their houseguest was from the North. She let go her maid’s hands, and took her by the shoulders instead, looking her square in the eye. “Tell it true, Transom. Tell it straight.”

The old maid took in a breath, her downcast eyes trained on the floor. “The Blantyre mine. The worst explosion, they are saying. Over two-hundred men, perished.”

The duke. That was
his
mine. Well, he was an investor, anyway. And her father had somehow been involved. “I see,” Lacy said, forcing a calm tone to her quivering voice. “Where is the duke now?”

“He is trying to get a coach out. His horse is suffering from the colic this morning.”

“We have horses. Is my stepmother not making them ready for the man?”

“I know not, m’lady. Perhaps you can intervene?”

Lady Lacilia pointed to her wardrobe. “Please help me into something quickly. Something loose and flowing. We have no time for tight-lacing this morning.”

“But, Lady Lacy, your paramatta! Certainly, you cannot forget the mourning attire requi—”

“My father’s honor and legacy will be further compromised if we don’t attend to this disaster post haste. Fetch me the loose emerald gown and some fresh knickers.”

The maid gasped.

“What?”

“Miss Lacilia. Really? Cannot you put your scandalous ways aside during this sad time?”

“Tansom, my father encouraged my pursuit of art. You know that. I am an aesthete, and Lord Bloomsbury would have no quarrel with it.”

“M’lady, with all respect, Lord Bloomsbury has passed, and the Lady feels quite differently.”

At reference to her stepmother, Lacy flushed with anger and pushed past the maid, retrieving her clothing herself. “Time is wasting, Tansom. Now, prepare a toilette and quickly!”

“We have a little matter to settle before you dash off, Your Grace.”

The widow’s unyielding manner in the face of calamity was nothing less than incredulous. Duke Darlington, in his formal frock coat but without the cravat of yesterday, paced the parlor. “We can revisit this matter at a later date. I beg of you, I need two horses and a small carriage to get me to Cockermouth, where my coach awaits. I will pay you for your troubles.”

The widow scoffed. “Pay me? With what, Duke? It appears your situation has gone from bad to dire.”

The woman snapped her fingers, connoting the instantaneous nature of misfortune. His family, the families of those miners, the entire parish of Blantyre would be upside down, heaps of dead the likes of which no burgh or township, parish or ducal province had witnessed. Darlington was close to begging.

“I have taken the liberty of drawing up an agreement,” the widow added, pulling a scroll from the black purse at her waist.

Darlington’s head was full to exploding. He grabbed the paper cylinder, unrolled it and strode quickly to a writing desk, taking in hand the steel pen and signing in a fury. “You leave me no choice then.”

He thrust the signed paper at his captor, and then beseeched her once more. “The coach, then?”

The lady took in a breath and reviewed the agreement. When she was satisfied that the duke had signed off legally, she raised her head, peered over her half-spectacles, and announced, “We have an open rig, available. The phaeton. If the weather holds, which is somewhat possible, you should have no trouble reaching Cockermouth by nightfall. I’ll send for my coachman.”

Darlington spied the brass bell across the room, and was close to galloping over to ring it himself when the parlor doors opened wide, a servant making way for the duke’s contracted bride.

Again outfitted in black parmatta and crepe, the young girl bounced into the room. She was concentrating on keeping her hands from clapping, Darlington surmised, because they lurched against her sides as though in apoplectic palsy.

“Sarah Jane Bloomsbury,” spoke the widow, as calm as you like, “you are now officially betrothed to the Duke of Blantyre Highmeadow.”

At this the girl let out a scream. A perilous, shrill sound not unlike that of a rabbit being eviscerated by hounds.

Darlington winced, feeling his back teeth tingle in pain.

“I will make you such a good wife, Duke,” she squealed, spinning round and round until her mother grabbed her upper arm.

“You can start by wishing your fiancé well. He has a difficult journey ahead of him.”

“Indeed!” shouted the girl. Then, as if a child awaiting Father Christmas, she grinned, employing every muscle in her cheeks. “And when will this wedding take place?”

Darlington struggled to speak, so struck – appalled, really – at the degree of forthrightness and flat out disregard for manners. Here these two had just buried the beloved head of the house, and were behaving as if they’d skipped the mourning altogether.

And in the face of the tragedy of which he’d just gotten word, this was most improper, this nuptial scheming. At last, he drew his wits about him and spoke. “Certainly not before your proper time of mourning concludes.”

The countess glanced at the shrouded mirrors, as if just now reminded of her recent widowhood. “We will plan a spring wedding. This coming April, I think. We’ll figure out a way around the clothing.”

Darlington felt as if struck by a club. All of society frowned on resuming social activities before the official year of mourning. In many cases, the family members wore black for a year-and-a-half. And with this disaster at Blantyre, why, it would be blasphemous to celebrate in the face of the devastation. Though he didn’t know for certain, he guessed that many families of his acquaintance had lost men in yesterday’s explosion.

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Ladyships, I really must be off. Would you send for your coachman?”

Lady Bloomsbury rang the bell, and Darlington forced himself to smile at the young lady who was to become the next Duchess of Blantyre Highmeadow, though every centimeter of him recoiled.

Kent, the valet, came at once. The family’s regular coachman was abed with a bad back, and that left his son, Roland, who was barely tall enough to see over the horse’s ears. “Not advisable, your Ladyship,” he said. “There’s foul weather in the air, and young Roland is quite inexperienced with the ruts on the road north.”

“Nonsense,” spat the widow. “Have him prepare the phaeton at once. We cannot keep my future son-in-law waiting.”

Kent bowed. “As you wish, m’lady.”

The widow then turned to her daughter. “Offer your hand, you little fool. You really have a lot to learn.”

“My hand?” said Sarah Jane stretching her fingers out in the air in front of her face.

The countess turned to Darlington, her brow low and her eyes narrowed. “Naturally, we would skip presentation at court for this one. And I trust that you will be discreet down the road? With your ducal comings and goings?”

The widow twisted the girl’s arm, and pulled her toward her fiancé, offering the duke the back of her hand. Darlington took it, and deposited a dry peck on the knuckles.

Lacilia only meant to return the duke’s handkerchief – she’d washed it and hung it to dry overnight – but when she entered the parlor, she found it empty. Perhaps he’d already left?

She heard the chattery voices of her stepmother and sister in the hall. They seemed animated, as if planning a dinner party. There was lilt and laughter. Lacilia wished to avoid them both at all costs. It galled her to imagine that they’d continued with the nuptial blackmail under the devastating circumstances.

Lacy peered out the parlor window, and viewed the grounds. There, on the path between the stable and the main house, she watched the coachman’s son – a groom who meant well, but was a fair horseman at best – attempting to harness the horses to a small cart. Wind had picked up, and a loose branch hit the grass near one of the horses, and it spooked, causing the harness to twist and the small carriage to lurch to the side.

“Oh dear,” Lacy muttered. The duke himself was attempting to intervene, but the groom – Rodney? No, no, it was Roland – pushed him back, too proud to accept help from anyone, much less a man of such high social stature.

Lady Lacilia, her cloak in hand, rushed out the side door, and made a beeline for the chaotic assemblage of humans and horses. She ran up just in time to see the large bay, typically passive and reliable, rear up against the coachman’s son.

“Stop!” she shouted at the groom, who was frantically yelling at the poor horse. The young man was corpulent, and his belly leapt up and down as he attempted to gentle the horse.

The groom put out a hand, palm facing her. “Stay back, m’lady! This is no place for a gentlewoman.”

The duke swirled round as well. He sounded agitated. “My good lady, is there not a coachman at Highcastle who can secure a proper harness?”

Lacilia ignored the men, gave the duke her cloak to hold, and slowly approached the frenzied horse from the near side. The young coachman shuffled toward her, as if planning to wrest her groundward. “Roland, stand back. He’s clearly spooked.”

The horse’s pinned ears righted upon the sound of his mistress.

“There now, Pheasant, easy, boy.”

The horse nickered.

Lacilia flipped the harness round to rights, slipped the collar back over the horse’s head. The other horse stood still, even resting its back hoof.

The duke spoke softly. “You’ve quite a way with them, Lady Lacilia.”

“My father and I took the carriage out each Sunday, after church. We had a habit of bringing baskets round the parish.”

“Charitable visits, horsemanship, and quite the fondness for, er, cheeky fashion?”

Lacy ignored the comment. She kept stroking the horses’ necks, for they’d both worked up a lather, and the wind was cooling them too quickly. She turned to the groom. “Go fetch the rugs. We need to dry these horses before they catch a chill.”