Page 19 of Only a Mistress Will Do

“You?” The mantua maker stared at her as if she had grown two heads. “You wish me to employ you? C’est incroyable.” Then she shook her head and laughed. “You have had the little joke with me, eh, mademoiselle? Another talent to amuse Seigneur Trevor, oui? But you should not suggest I would take his lordship’s mistress from him. My custom would be ruined, not only with Seigneur Trevor, but with all of his friends as well.” With a shiver she crossed herself. “No, cherie,” she said, patting Violet’s arm, “do not jest about such things.”

Violet closed her eyes and sighed. Another avenue closed to her.

“Come, we have much to do, damoiselle.” She drew Violet to the chairs before the fire. “Here, these are sketches using some of the fabrics I have in my shop. We must choose six more dresses and two ball gowns.”

“Ball gowns?” Her high-pitched squeak sounded loud in her own ears.

“Mais oui, his lordship insisted.” Angelique smiled, and Violet’s spirits sank at the predatory gleam in the seamstress’s eyes. “I have just the thing at my shop, the perfect fabric to bring the gold in your eyes leaping straight to Seigneur Trevor’s heart. It is a heavy silk with a lace pattern woven into the fabric. It is beige and rust on a dark brown, all shot through with golden threads. It will be an exquisite ball gown for you, my dear. His lordship will not be able to take his eyes off you, especially after I lower the neckline several inches.”

Dear Lord. If the woman lowered the necklines of the ones she’d just tried on, she’d be showing her bosom down to her navel. They needed a fichu now. Still, the designs were entrancing. She could imagine herself dancing at a ball in the one Madame Angelique held before her, a robe à la française in lavender and green stripes over a lavender petticoat with scrollwork edged in rust around the jacket front. Oh, but she hungered for the feel of such a gown.

“Mademoiselle Cassandra, you must choose, my dear.”

Violet jumped, startled as much by the voice as by the name.

“Seigneur Trevor insists all the gowns must be completed no later than next week. I must begin this afternoon.” Angelique cocked her head like an expectant bird. “Your choices, mademoiselle?”

Desire to appear once again as she had before Jamie’s death coursed through her. She should take Lord Trevor at his word. Surely, he wished her nothing but well. In order for her to appear as a member of good standing in Society of course she must look her best. Even a companion needed different gowns. And he had spoken of perhaps a marriage. In order to attract a gentleman of the nobility she would have to be outfitted splendidly, according to her station. This was what Tristan had had in mind by giving these instructions to Madame Angelique.

Heartbeat pounding, she pointed to the lavender and green stripe. “This one, Madame. Along with the one in beige and brown you described for the two ball gowns.” Violet picked up the other sketches and smiled at the mantua maker. This would be exciting and fun. Life as a faux mistress had distinct advantages. “For the day gowns, I think I prefer the robe à la anglaise, in this salmon print and in this light blue brocade. Then I believe the cream-colored one with the embroidered stomacher will do nicely as well. And do you have any others in lavender or violet? Those are my favorite colors.”

* * * *

Attired in the two-piece cream print gown, Violet spun in her room, laughing in sheer delight at having a new and fashionable gown. While she and Madame Angelique had finalized her selection of gowns, the two assistants had stitched and tucked and hemmed like fiends to ready the gown before they left. The result was an outfit that made Violet hold her head high, ready to meet the world head on. Her lack of clothing had compromised her self-esteem. Now armed with this new gown, Susan’s expert hairstyle, a pinner cap, and the silk mules, Violet marched down the staircase confident for the first time in weeks that life would work out to her satisfaction.

She stuck her head in the kitchen and was greeted with the deliciously sweet aroma of baking breads. “Mrs. Parker, could you please arrange a tea for me?”

“Of course, miss. Shall I serve it in the parlor or the music room?” The kind woman looked up from the dough she was rolling out and smiled.

“There is a music room?” The day kept getting brighter and brighter.

“Yes, miss. Just across the hall from the parlor.” The cook nodded toward the door where Violet stood. “We’ve been so busy putting the rest of the house to rights, and without Mr. Gates to oversee the work—the man knew everything about running a household—we’ve not been as swift to have the house just so for you.”

“Well, I think everything here is wonderful, Mrs. Parker. Thank you so very much for taking such good care of me.” The closed door at the end of the hallway beckoned. Excitement raced through her veins. “Could you please serve tea in the music room? I would like a little time to explore now that I am more settled.” She smoothed the skirt of her new dress. Amazing how a fresh, handsome gown had made the whole day seem better. What wonders were in store for her in the music room?

“Of course, miss. Would you like to wait until this batch of shortbread comes out of the oven?” She gestured to the dough lying thick, sparkling with a dusting of sugar on the butcher block table. “I’ll have it in the oven in a twink.”

“Oh, yes, please.” Violet’s mouth watered. “That would be lovely.” She backed out of the kitchen and strode down the corridor, noting the Turkey carpet and the tasteful landscapes on the walls. Tristan certainly seemed to enjoy the arts. Painting, carpets, furniture, fashionable gowns. Did he also attend the theatre? Perhaps he was an artist himself. That would certainly make sense. He seemed a very sensitive man, much different than her brother and their cousin, who had been loud and boisterous. More like overgrown boys than men. Tristan was most definitely a man—a very handsome and charitable one.

She pressed down the latch and opened the door on a room similar in size and elegant furnishings to the parlor across the hall, save for the beautiful cherry wood spinet that sat before the bay window looking out onto the street. Very carefully she walked forward, ran her shaking fingers across the gleaming surface. Lovingly, she stroked the exquisite instrument, played a C, then an F. In tune, and with a lovely tone. She sat on the stool and rested her hands on the keyboard.

Their harpsichord at home had been the first thing sold, her harp the last before she and her grandmother had been forced to move to London. She had sorely missed playing every day. The few times she’d been asked to entertain at a party with a song she’d been forced to choose easier pieces because of a lack of means to practice. Her exhibitions had thus not shown off her talents to their best ability. Perhaps that had been a factor in not attracting a husband.

Where might they keep sheet music? A lacquered cabinet beneath a picture of Venus and Cupid seemed a likely place. A search of it turned up a case with several pieces she did not know, and one sonata by Scarlatti that she did. She clapped her hands and took it back to the harpsichord. After laying out the music sheet by sheet, she settled onto the bench and ran her fingers over the keys. It was like coming home. Scales as always to warm up. They came automatically, even after all this time. That done, so much more palatable now she’d actually missed them, she set about re-familiarizing herself with the Scarlatti.

The concerto K1 hadn’t been one of her favorites, still she’d learned it once and could certainly do so again. She began slowly, stopping and starting, then found remembered passages where the music flowed effortlessly from her fingertips. After one such passage, however, she faltered, her fingers losing the thread of the keystrokes, and she jangled to a discordant end. She stretched her hands, then flexed them, and smiled. With daily practice she could master the piece once more.

Enthusiastic clapping from the doorway behind her sent her hurtling to her feet. Her hand knocked the music to the floor and Tristan darted forward, scooping up the sheets almost before they hit the polished planks.

“I beg your pardon, Violet. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He smiled and her heart stuttered. “But I always acknowledge a rare talent when I hear one. Brava!”

“You heard me playing?” She didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified.

“I came in about halfway through. Just before you broke free.” Straightening, he handed her the sheets of parchment. “It was like watching a bird leave the ground and soar.” His fingers brushed her palm as he passed the music to her.

The spark that leaped from him to her sent her reeling. She stumbled back and he caught her wrist, scalding her, making her tremble inside.

“I do beg pardon. I shouldn’t have startled you so. Come, sit down here.” He escorted her to a chair before the fire. “Let me get Mrs. Parker. She had brought the tea tray while you were playing, but I selfishly sent it back.” His eyes were warm and dark. “I didn’t want you to stop.” He disappeared into the passageway, calling for the cook.