Frederica in Fashion (3 page)

The south front was baroque but the west front was Gothic. Frederica was to discover later that the east was classical and the north, Tudor. But the mixture of architectural styles added to, rather than detracted from, the magnificence of the building.

The drive was ornamented on both sides with tall marble statues on plinths. The gleaming white gigantic figures formed a strange sort of guard of honour for the small figure of Frederica as she walked between them under the darkening sky, dragging her trunk.

By the time she had reached the Abbey, she had forgotten that servants do not enter by the main door.

The door stood open and so she walked into the hall. The hall was a miracle of stone, wood and marble. Paintings, tapestries, carved wood and a painted ceiling made Frederica stare in awe.

Mr Anderson, the butler, emerged into the hall from the nether regions. He scrutinized the small figure standing beside the battered trunk. Despite the shabby hat and lack of maid, his practised eye was not deceived. He recognized expensive dressmaking when he saw it.

‘May I be of assistance, miss?’ he asked.

Frederica started and looked up into Anderson’s face. He was not fat and ponderous like most butlers, but slim, wiry and sallow.

‘I am come to ask if you need a chambermaid, sir,’ said Frederica.

Anderson’s mouth tightened. ‘Come with me before anyone sees you,’ he scolded. ‘Walking in the front door as bold as brass and wearing fine clothes. No better than you should be, probably. We’ll see what Mrs Bradley has to say to this.’

Frederica decided she could not go through with
it. She half-turned to run when her eye caught the tall figure of the duke emerging from a room at the far end of the hall. With a little gulp, she seized her trunk and followed the butler through a small door and down a steep flight of stairs.

Anderson stopped at a polished wooden door on a half-landing and scratched at the panels.

‘Enter,’ called a woman’s voice.

Anderson strode in, signalling to Frederica to follow him.

The housekeeper, Mrs Bradley, sat in a
tapestry-covered
chair beside the fireplace in her parlour.

‘What is this, Mr Anderson?’ she demanded.

Anderson pushed Frederica forward.

‘This baggage comes marching in by the front door, asking for a job as a chambermaid.’

Frederica dropped Mrs Bradley a curtsy and stood with her eyes lowered.

Mrs Bradley was a stout, florid-faced woman encased in black silk. Her large starched cap was surrounded by a starched frill which stuck out all round her fat face. The cap was tied under her chins with two stiff, white, starched ribbons. On the bosom of her gown was pinned a large silver watch, so large it was almost like a clock.

‘What have you to say for yourself, girl?’ she demanded. She had a surprisingly deep, hoarse voice.

‘I came in the hope of employment,’ said Frederica.

‘Ho! And wearing fine clothes. You never bought those duds out of your pay. Stole them, heh?’

‘No, ma’am,’ said Frederica meekly. ‘My late mistress, Mrs Betwynd-Pargeter, give them to me.’

‘And why are you not still with this Mrs
Betwynd-Pargeter?’

‘’Cos she died, ma’am. But she give me a reference on her … ’er … deathbed,’ said Frederica, desperately trying to speak like a chambermaid. ‘I have two references with me.’

‘Let me turn her out,’ said Anderson. ‘Bold minx.’

‘It happens I need a chambermaid what with all these guests his grace has sprung on me, and I would like to remind you, Mr Anderson, that I am quite capable of making up my own mind when it comes to hiring girls.’

Anderson shrugged. ‘Don’t blame me if she steals the silver,’ he said, slamming his way crossly out of the housekeeper’s parlour.

‘Let me see your references,’ said Mrs Bradley.

Frederica fumbled in her reticule and produced the two forged letters. Mrs Bradley lumbered to her feet and searched in a drawer and then produced a small pair of steel-framed spectacles which she popped on her nose.

After studying them, the housekeeper heaved her large bulk back into her chair and peered at Frederica over the top of her spectacles.

‘Now, miss, in the normal way I would not engage a girl until I had written to the lady here who is still alive. But I’m sore pressed for staff, and then, it stands to reason that a chambermaid would not have the learning to write these letters herself. Sit down opposite me.’

Frederica curtsied again and sat down, her hands folded on her lap and her eyes meekly on the floor.

‘You will work with Mary, and will be given the guest ladies’ bedrooms in the East Wing. If you become permanently employed then you will be given two bolts of cloth for to make dresses, two print and two black.

‘Did your former employers engage many
servants
?’

‘No, ma’am, nothing compared with the great number you must have here,’ said Frederica.

‘Your duties may not seem quite so hard as those you have been accustomed to, because we do employ a great many persons. But mark you,
no
skimping. You always take a pail of boiling water up to them bedchambers, and after you empty the chamber pots into the slop pail, you scald them out with boiling water and then polish them with a cloth. You must wear a bed apron so that any dirt from your dress won’t get on the linen. The beds should be stripped down every day and left for about an hour to air. Now, what’s your family?’

‘Dead, ma’am,’ said Frederica, mentally sending all the fictitious Millets to the grave. ‘I was taken on from the orphanage.’

‘Well, Sarah Millet, this is your home now, if you’re a good girl. You look clean and that’s a mercy. How come you speak so ladylike?’

‘I copied mistress’s voice,’ said Frederica-Sarah, although she was surprised at Mrs Bradley’s
question. She thought she had been speaking very like a chambermaid.

‘That’s as may be,’ growled Mrs Bradley in her hoarse voice, ‘but don’t go putting on airs above your station. Now, you can join me in a glass of gin and hot, and then I’ll introduce you to Mary.

‘Mr Smiles is the groom of the chambers. Always call him “sir”. If he’s dissatisfied with your work and says you must go, then there’s nothing I can do to stop him. He’s The Law.’

Frederica wanted to ask about wages, but had not the courage. And wasn’t she to have any days off?

Mrs Bradley lumbered to her feet again and took a steaming kettle from the hob on the hearth. She poured two half-glasses of gin and topped them up with boiling water.

‘King George and the Duke of Pembury!’ said Mrs Bradley, tossing the mixture straight down her throat.

‘King George and the Duke of Pembury,’ echoed Frederica, and poured her glass of gin and hot water straight down her throat as well. Tears started to her eyes as the mixture burned her mouth.

‘Goodness,’ thought Frederica, ‘any more of these toasts and I shall be as hoarse as Mrs Bradley.’

‘Now,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘pick up your bag and I’ll take you to Mr Smiles.’

Minerva, the eldest of the Armitage girls, had just presented her husband, Lord Sylvester Comfrey, with a baby girl.

Unlike the births of the previous two babies, both boys, this one had been difficult. Lord Sylvester would normally never have dreamed of reading his wife’s letters, but when he saw the schoolgirlish scrawl that was Frederica’s lying among the morning post, he decided to read it.

The Armitage girls were always in some kind of trouble and Minerva always seemed to become involved in it.

He was determined that nothing should disturb his beautiful wife’s recovery, and so, after only a little hesitation, he broke the seal and opened the letter.

‘The old fool!’ he said savagely, meaning the vicar, his father-in-law. If Frederica had run away – although he believed she was romanticizing – then she must be found as soon as possible. This bad news must be kept from his wife.

He went upstairs and quietly entered his wife’s bedroom. She had been asleep but awoke as he walked into the room.

She looked so frail that his heart missed a beat.

He kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘How are you, sweeting?’

‘Tired’ – Minerva smiled – ‘but so much better.’

‘I am going down to Hopeworth for a few days. There is a new system of land drainage that might interest your father.’

‘I think you give Papa
too
much help,’ said Minerva. ‘He is only interested in hunting, and if you give him money he does not put it into land but simply buys more horses and hounds.’

‘We will see. I have managed to persuade him before this to do something about his land.’

‘Will you be gone long, Sylvester?’ asked Minerva, her grey eyes looking enormous in her pale face. He smoothed her hair back from her brow with a gentle hand.

‘No, my love, only a few days. You know I can never leave you for long.’

‘You never leave me at all except when there is an emergency. Sylvester …’ Minerva struggled up against the pillows.

‘No. No,’ he said soothingly. ‘I have some business in Hopeminster in any case. You must admit you have been worried about your father since Diana’s wedding when he behaved most oddly. I am sure you would feel better if you knew all was well.’

Minerva looked at him anxiously. She thought she would never know what went on behind his
enigmatic
green eyes and handsome face.

‘You are worrying that I am keeping something from you,’ he said. ‘But you are quite wrong. I might also call at the seminary and take little Frederica a gift.’

Minerva’s face brightened. ‘Poor Freddie,’ she said. ‘We have sadly neglected her. Oh, Sylvester, why do you not bring her here with you? I will be well enough, by the time the Season begins, to chaperone her. Annabelle says she met a very charming captain at the Ruthfords’ the other night who would make Freddie a perfect husband.’

‘What a match-maker you have become.’ Her
husband laughed. ‘I will try to bring Freddie back with me. She will be company for you. Now, try to sleep. And do not worry. There is nothing the matter. Nothing the matter at all.’

THREE

Once upon a time, the staff at the Hopeworth vicarage had seemed much too small to cater for six girls and two boys as well as the Reverend and Mrs Charles Armitage.

Now they found time lay heavy on their hands, for there was only the vicar to look after. To see to his needs was John Summer, his coachman-cum-
groom-cum
-kennel master-cum-whipper in. Then there was the odd-man, Harry Tring, who still acted as footman or butler, depending on the importance of the callers. The knife boy was a new one, Herbert, from the Hopeminster orphanage. Cook-housekeeper Mrs Hammer held sway above and below stairs. There was even Rose, a parlourmaid.

And there was Sarah Millet.

Sarah’s duties were supposed to be those of lady’s maid, but without any ladies in the household, her work had sunk to that of general maid.

And what sort of life was that? thought Sarah grumpily as she walked along by the village pond. Mr Armitage had said he could not announce their engagement to anyone, not until a decent period of mourning for his wife was over. But Diana Armitage had been married a month ago in half-mourning and her father did not seem to see anything wrong with that. ‘In a little, Sarah,’ he would say. ‘Be patient.’

It had been easy to be patient during the dark winter days where there was little else to do but dream of being a fine lady. But spring had come, a warm, caressing spring, reminding Sarah she was a young and pretty girl who had allowed a
middle-aged
vicar space in her bed – space for which he was becoming increasingly reluctant to pay any rent in the way of marriage.

He had not even allowed her to tell the other servants of her forthcoming marriage, with the result that Mrs Hammer treated Sarah as if she were a slut.

‘Which I am not!’ thought Sarah fiercely, tossing her head and throwing a saucy glance at a strange young man who was walking towards her.

The gentleman swept off his hat and gave Sarah an appreciative smile. Sarah dropped a demure curtsy and glanced up at the stranger under her long curling lashes.

He was tall, and bronzed as if he had come from foreign parts. He had a quantity of light brown hair, was fashionably dressed, and had a pleasant,
handsome
face.

‘That’s a sight I never thought to see again,’ he
said, ‘a pretty English maid walking along on a fine English morning.’

‘Have you come from far away?’ asked Sarah.

‘Yes, my chuck. From America.’

‘And do you come from Hopeworth, sir?’

‘I am Lady Wentwater’s nephew, Guy Wentwater. And where do you live, my fairest?’

‘At the vicarage,’ said Sarah, with a petulant jerk of her head in that direction.

To her amazement, venom blazed for a moment in Mr Wentwater’s eyes. Then he said, ‘Pray do not mention my name. I do not like Mr Armitage.’

He bowed and walked on, leaving Sarah looking after him.

Wentwater. Sarah racked her brains. Lady
Went-water
had not been seen for a long while. Her mansion at the other end of the village had been leased for a short time to strangers, but last winter it had stood empty. It was known in the village, for it had been in all the papers, that Guy Wentwater had left for America after killing a murderer, so that meant he was a brave man. But she had heard hints and mutterings about the vicarage which seemed to indicate he was some sort of villain. He was courting Miss Emily, Sir Edwin Armitage’s daughter, and it was well known that she had waited faithfully for his return. Sir Edwin Armitage was the vicar’s brother.

Of course, thought Sarah, poor Emily couldn’t do else but wait what with a face like hers.

Sarah leaned over the pond, trying to get a glimpse of her reflection in the still water, but all she
succeeded in seeing was the top of her fair head and the ribbons on her cap.

She walked on, thinking about Mr Wentwater. Once she was married to the vicar, she would have a chance to meet fine gentlemen like that on an equal level … and maybe indulge in something a little warmer.

‘Day-dreaming, Sarah?’

Sarah turned slowly round and looked into the boot-button eyes of the vicar of St Charles and St Jude, the Reverend Charles Armitage.

He was a squat John Bull of a man wearing a shovel hat and pepper-and-salt coat. He smelled of damp dog and brandy. Mr Wentwater had smelled of Joppa soap and lavender water.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed into slits. ‘When are we going to announce our engagement, Charlie?’ she said in a loud voice.

The vicar winced. ‘Thought we might do it after I get Frederica puffed off.’

‘What! She’s the plain one. Nobody’ll want to marry her for ages. You listen to me, Charlie. I’ve had enough o’ old Mrs Hammer’s sneers, and when I’m Mrs Armitage, I want her sacked.’

‘See here, girl,’ growled the vicar, ‘if you go on like that, I’ll never marry you. Me get rid o’ Mrs Hammer! Tish!’

‘Well, you can keep your fat hands to yourself and keep out of my bedroom until after the wedding,’ said Sarah, standing with her hands on her hips.

The vicar eyed her gloomily from her head of
golden curls shining under the frivolous cap to her cheeky, thrusting bosom. ‘Take care I don’t change my mind.’

‘You can’t,’ said Sarah triumphantly. ‘I’ll sue you for breach o’ promise. Besides you told Frederica and stands to reason she’ll have told Minerva.’

‘Lady Sylvester and Miss Frederica to you,’ snarled the vicar. ‘Women! You’re all a poxy lot.’

‘Oooh!’ Sarah drew back her plump fist and gave him such a resounding box on the ear that his hat sailed off and fell in the pond.

She marched off down the road, her curls bouncing.

‘Jade!’ the vicar yelled after her.

A drake was nibbling at his hat and he cursed it roundly. Sometimes the vicar thought the whole of nature was in a plot to conspire against him. There was the old dog fox which had led him such a merry chase over the past few years. He often thought the animal was laughing at him. And now there was that there drake, nibbling at his hat and fixing him with one insolent golden eye.

He heard a step behind him and swung round. Mr Pettifor, his over-worked curate, was standing
behind
him, open-mouthed.

‘Don’t just stand there,’ said the vicar. ‘Get my hat.’

Mr Pettifor hitched up his cassock and looked nervously at the water. Growing tired of the hat, the drake bobbed his sleek head under the water and the resultant little wave sent the hat slowly spinning towards the shore.

Mr Pettifor leaned forward a long arm and fished
it out. ‘Lord Sylvester says he only intends to stay for one night,’ said Mr Pettifor conversationally, handing the vicar his hat.

‘What! Comfrey here? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You didn’t give me a chance,’ said Mr Pettifor plaintively. ‘Besides, I thought you knew.’

Seizing his sopping hat, the vicar strode off down the road.

He crashed into the vicarage parlour and surveyed his elegant son-in-law. ‘How’s Merva?’ he asked, handing Rose, the parlourmaid, his wrecked hat. ‘Fetch us some brandy, Rose.’

‘Minerva is not in the best of health,’ said Lord Sylvester, fastidiously removing a dog hair from his impeccable pantaloons. ‘I wrote to you informing you of the birth of our daughter. Minerva is still weak and needs rest.’

‘Unlike you to leave her,’ said the vicar, seizing the brandy bottle, pouring two glasses, and tossing off his own before Lord Sylvester had time even to raise his to his mouth.

‘No,’ said Lord Sylvester equably, ‘only another Armitage crisis would drive me from her side.’

‘No crisis that I know of,’ said the vicar, beginning to relax as the brandy warmed his stomach.

‘It seems you have precipitated one. I am not in the habit of reading my wife’s post, but I read this one from Frederica because, for some reason, I felt there might be trouble from that quarter.’

He handed over the letter, which the vicar read with increasing wrath and dismay.

He shot his son-in-law a furtive, angry look. The vicar felt trapped. He did not spare much thought to his youngest daughter. He was sure Frederica was merely trying to frighten him. But that she should have told Minerva about Sarah! He had been extremely grateful to Sarah for her favours. But he was gradually becoming accustomed to being single again. Not that the late Mrs Armitage had taken up much of his time, but she had been his wife, and very much what the vicar considered a wife should be … genteel, ailing and perpetually complaining. The fact that his handsome daughters did not fit this picture did not alter the vicar’s opinion of married women. His daughters were his daughters, and he had never really quite grasped the fact that they were married, even with one of his sons-in-law sitting facing him.

‘Is Sarah the one who brought the brandy?’ asked Lord Sylvester, remembering vaguely that the Sarah of Frederica’s letter was a servant at the vicarage.

‘Not her,’ said the vicar with some pride. ‘Sarah’s the pretty one.’

‘Worse than I thought,’ drawled Lord Sylvester, stretching one booted foot out to the fire.

‘And what does that mean?’ growled the vicar.

‘Simply, the pretty ones are harder to get rid of. They know their worth.’

‘Who said anything about gettin’ rid o’ Sarah?’

‘Then you
are
going to marry her?’

‘Of course,’ said the vicar stoutly.

Lord Sylvester straightened up. ‘Then may I suggest you allow the girl to come and reside with one of us until the wedding? You cannot have an affair with a servant girl in a country vicarage and you a vicar. It’s a wonder no one from the church, your bishop or archdeacon, has been hammering on the door to excommunicate you.’

‘Who said I’d bedded her,’ said the vicar sulkily.

‘If the whole village is not saying so by now, it’s a miracle. And what of your other servants? How does Mrs Hammer feel – giving orders to a maid she knows will shortly be her mistress?’

‘Well, she don’t know, do she?’

‘Worse and worse. You will need to make an honest woman of Sarah as soon as possible.’

‘Who do you think you are?’ raged the vicar who was secretly afraid of his elegant son-in-law, and like most people, usually hid his fright behind a barrier of anger.

‘I am your daughter’s husband. I am damned if Minerva is going to be upset by scandal. Now Frederica has threatened to run away. I suggest we both travel to the seminary. If she is still – God willing – there, which I am sure she must be.

‘Frederica is given to occasional flights of fancy, but she is much too timid to run away. I will take her back to London with me and turn her over to Minerva. Minerva and her sisters are determined to find Frederica a husband this Season.’

‘Very well,’ said the vicar, getting to his feet.

‘But before we go,’ said Lord Sylvester silkily, ‘I
think it would be polite to introduce me to your future bride.’

‘She ain’t here,’ said the vicar hurriedly. ‘I left her in the village.’

The slamming of the outside door heralded Sarah’s angry arrival home. She erupted into the parlour, and stopped short at the sight of Lord Sylvester Comfrey.

‘This here’s Sarah,’ mumbled the vicar, ‘so now, let’s be off. Look here, Sarah, seems Miss Frederica is worried ’bout something so me and Comfrey’s going over to the seminary.’

Lord Sylvester had risen to his feet at Sarah’s entrance. He eyed the short figure of the vicar with cynical amusement. ‘You have not formally introduced me to your fiancée, Mr Armitage.’

At that interesting moment, Rose opened the parlour door. ‘Mr Radford,’ she announced, ushering in the squire. Squire Radford was a small, slight, elderly man, wearing an old-fashioned bag-wig and knee breeches. The vicar often thought gloomily that his Maker had put the squire in Hopeworth village to act as his, the vicar’s, conscience.

He was determined the squire should not find out about Sarah.

‘You’ve caught us at a bad moment, Jimmy,’ said the vicar with a shifty look. ‘Fetch my hat, Rose. Frederica’s pining a bit, and Comfrey and me’s going to see her. So …’

‘But first, Mr Armitage was just about to introduce me to his fiancée,’ said Lord Sylvester.

‘My dear Charles!’ exclaimed the squire. ‘You
are
a dark horse. I had no idea. Who is the lucky lady? Mrs Petworth over in Hopeminster? Mrs Jones in Berley?’ The squire racked his brains for the names of eligible widows. ‘Mrs …

‘No, it’s me,’ said Sarah crossly.

The squire sat down suddenly.

Lord Sylvester made Sarah his best bow. ‘My felicitations to you both, Miss …

‘Millet,’ beamed Sarah, sinking into a low curtsy.

‘Oh, dear,’ said the squire.

‘Spare me,’ groaned the Reverend Charles
Armitage
.

‘I am honoured to meet the future Mrs Armitage,’ said Lord Sylvester.

‘Lawks!’ screamed Rose, the parlourmaid,
standing
open-mouthed in the doorway, holding the vicar’s still sodden hat.

‘What’s to do?’ came the voice of Mrs Hammer behind Rose.

‘Oh, Mrs Hammer,’ wailed Rose. ‘Master is going to marry Sarah.’

‘Nooo!’ shrieked Mrs Hammer. ‘’Tain’t so.’