Dawn on a Distant Shore
Page 158
A voice kept whispering that these French had something to do with Dupuis, and more--that Dupuis held the key to the mystery that had brought them here in the first place. Perhaps she was being silly and superstitious; perhaps tonight's dinner would give them a way to getting home.
"Very well, Mally. But nothing too pretentious. Did Miss Somerville have no simple gowns?"
Mally considered. "There's this lovely silk gauze. See the silver shells sae delicate on the hem. Or the silk drugget, wi' the fine embroidery."
They were beautiful, and Elizabeth resented them greatly even while she admired their artistry: silk pongee, sequins of gold and silver paper appliquéd with invisible stitches, chenille embroidery, tiny pleats.
"A thousand hours o' work," said Mally, reading her mind. "Yer Miss Somerville had a verra guid seamstress, mem, and ye dinna mind me sayin'. She should be richt proud o' this fine stitchery."
"Yes," Elizabeth said, taking some satisfaction in this idea of the seamstress, whose work deserved to be admired. "So she must. The silk drugget, I think, Mally. Subtlety is the thing."
"Lord above," said Curiosity, breaking out into a great smile. "Is that you, Elizabeth?"
"I don't feel much like myself, I must admit." Elizabeth drew in a long breath and let it go again. "But it is only for one evening and tomorrow I will be back in my own clothes. Aren't you going to say anything, Nathaniel?"
He grinned at her. "I like you better in deerskin, Boots, but I can't deny how pretty you look."
It was a great irritation to her that she could not accept a simple compliment from her husband without flushing, but he was kind enough to take no note. Elizabeth gathered her shawl around her. The bodice of the gown was very low, indeed, and motherhood had made sure that she filled it just short of overflowing.
Nathaniel had had an easier time dressing. She made a turn around him. The cut of the dark blue coat was out of fashion, but the materials and workmanship were impeccable. The breeches and stockings were severe in line but very elegant, and the cloak that lay over a chair was lined with silk the same color as the coat. Understated, and effective.
"The earl was no macaroni as a younger man."
Curiosity laughed out loud. "A macaroni? What is that?"
"A man who spends too much of his income on his wardrobe, and too much time before the looking glass," said Elizabeth.
"Not our Nathaniel," said Curiosity with a certain satisfaction. "He sent back the flowered waistcoat. Posies just don' suit the man."
And it was true: no clothes could do him justice. Suddenly Elizabeth was glad that she had worn Giselle's fine gown. She knew he really would prefer her in doeskin or gray linen, but tonight at least she would not be a moth to his butterfly.
She smiled at him, and he took her arm.
"Let's get this over with, Boots. Then you and me can take a walk in the garden I've heard so much about."
In the hall they ran into Hannah, who drew up short at the sight of them, her mouth falling open.
"Is it such a shock to see us well groomed?" Elizabeth asked, putting a finger under her jaw to close it gently.
"Yes. No." She shook herself. "Are you going to eat with the earl?"
"We are."
Hannah clenched her hands together before herself. "But I wanted to talk to you about the village--"
Nathaniel frowned down at her, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right, Squirrel? Trouble?"
"No." She swallowed. "No trouble. Just a story I heard in the village--"
"You wait up for us," said Nathaniel. "We'll want to hear it as soon as we get back."
The Frenchwomen were not wives at all. Madame Marie Vigée was a widow and distant cousin to Monsieur Contrecoeur, a wine merchant who had taken up residence in London. She was chaperoning her niece, Mademoiselle Julie LeBrun, on her first tour of England and Scotland. They presented the whole undertaking as a lark, a journey for her amusement alone, but Elizabeth knew without being told that these ladies had escaped the Terror in France, although not in any huge rush--they had brought their finery with them, including the mass of purple feathers that trembled above Madame Vigée's elaborately piled hair. The question was, why were they abroad in Scotland when sentiments against the French were so much in evidence? There was a story here, one that might be worth hearing.
But neither of the Frenchwomen were the type to tell such stories, or any stories at all. Julie LeBrun was very young, and the company either bored or intimidated her, for she kept her eyes on her plate, ate almost nothing, never spoke unless addressed, and then in a hesitant and diffident tone. Madame Vigée seemed more interested in her wine glass than in conversation, although she turned a generous smile toward the earl at every opportunity.
But it was the men at the table who surprised her. The earl, because he studied his guests at length but spoke so little; and Monsieur Contrecoeur.
He was a man of medium height, solidly built and muscled, and no longer young. His beard was entirely gray, as was the mane of hair severely combed back and tied in a queue. His face was still beautiful--there was no other word for it-- but even in such perfectly proportioned features, his eyes drew attention. They were wide set and intensely blue-green, a color Elizabeth had never before seen. Aunt Merriweather would have found them excessive, and for once Elizabeth would have to agree. But he had an easy air about him, and a keen intelligence and calm that were as obvious as the strange color of his eyes and his odd habit of wearing gloves throughout the meal.
"Very well, Mally. But nothing too pretentious. Did Miss Somerville have no simple gowns?"
Mally considered. "There's this lovely silk gauze. See the silver shells sae delicate on the hem. Or the silk drugget, wi' the fine embroidery."
They were beautiful, and Elizabeth resented them greatly even while she admired their artistry: silk pongee, sequins of gold and silver paper appliquéd with invisible stitches, chenille embroidery, tiny pleats.
"A thousand hours o' work," said Mally, reading her mind. "Yer Miss Somerville had a verra guid seamstress, mem, and ye dinna mind me sayin'. She should be richt proud o' this fine stitchery."
"Yes," Elizabeth said, taking some satisfaction in this idea of the seamstress, whose work deserved to be admired. "So she must. The silk drugget, I think, Mally. Subtlety is the thing."
"Lord above," said Curiosity, breaking out into a great smile. "Is that you, Elizabeth?"
"I don't feel much like myself, I must admit." Elizabeth drew in a long breath and let it go again. "But it is only for one evening and tomorrow I will be back in my own clothes. Aren't you going to say anything, Nathaniel?"
He grinned at her. "I like you better in deerskin, Boots, but I can't deny how pretty you look."
It was a great irritation to her that she could not accept a simple compliment from her husband without flushing, but he was kind enough to take no note. Elizabeth gathered her shawl around her. The bodice of the gown was very low, indeed, and motherhood had made sure that she filled it just short of overflowing.
Nathaniel had had an easier time dressing. She made a turn around him. The cut of the dark blue coat was out of fashion, but the materials and workmanship were impeccable. The breeches and stockings were severe in line but very elegant, and the cloak that lay over a chair was lined with silk the same color as the coat. Understated, and effective.
"The earl was no macaroni as a younger man."
Curiosity laughed out loud. "A macaroni? What is that?"
"A man who spends too much of his income on his wardrobe, and too much time before the looking glass," said Elizabeth.
"Not our Nathaniel," said Curiosity with a certain satisfaction. "He sent back the flowered waistcoat. Posies just don' suit the man."
And it was true: no clothes could do him justice. Suddenly Elizabeth was glad that she had worn Giselle's fine gown. She knew he really would prefer her in doeskin or gray linen, but tonight at least she would not be a moth to his butterfly.
She smiled at him, and he took her arm.
"Let's get this over with, Boots. Then you and me can take a walk in the garden I've heard so much about."
In the hall they ran into Hannah, who drew up short at the sight of them, her mouth falling open.
"Is it such a shock to see us well groomed?" Elizabeth asked, putting a finger under her jaw to close it gently.
"Yes. No." She shook herself. "Are you going to eat with the earl?"
"We are."
Hannah clenched her hands together before herself. "But I wanted to talk to you about the village--"
Nathaniel frowned down at her, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right, Squirrel? Trouble?"
"No." She swallowed. "No trouble. Just a story I heard in the village--"
"You wait up for us," said Nathaniel. "We'll want to hear it as soon as we get back."
The Frenchwomen were not wives at all. Madame Marie Vigée was a widow and distant cousin to Monsieur Contrecoeur, a wine merchant who had taken up residence in London. She was chaperoning her niece, Mademoiselle Julie LeBrun, on her first tour of England and Scotland. They presented the whole undertaking as a lark, a journey for her amusement alone, but Elizabeth knew without being told that these ladies had escaped the Terror in France, although not in any huge rush--they had brought their finery with them, including the mass of purple feathers that trembled above Madame Vigée's elaborately piled hair. The question was, why were they abroad in Scotland when sentiments against the French were so much in evidence? There was a story here, one that might be worth hearing.
But neither of the Frenchwomen were the type to tell such stories, or any stories at all. Julie LeBrun was very young, and the company either bored or intimidated her, for she kept her eyes on her plate, ate almost nothing, never spoke unless addressed, and then in a hesitant and diffident tone. Madame Vigée seemed more interested in her wine glass than in conversation, although she turned a generous smile toward the earl at every opportunity.
But it was the men at the table who surprised her. The earl, because he studied his guests at length but spoke so little; and Monsieur Contrecoeur.
He was a man of medium height, solidly built and muscled, and no longer young. His beard was entirely gray, as was the mane of hair severely combed back and tied in a queue. His face was still beautiful--there was no other word for it-- but even in such perfectly proportioned features, his eyes drew attention. They were wide set and intensely blue-green, a color Elizabeth had never before seen. Aunt Merriweather would have found them excessive, and for once Elizabeth would have to agree. But he had an easy air about him, and a keen intelligence and calm that were as obvious as the strange color of his eyes and his odd habit of wearing gloves throughout the meal.
