Chapter Nine
William could not have been prouder of the efficiency of his staff and how they rallied around his plan to transform Miss Potts from a little country mouse into the fictional lady of his creation: Lady Penelope Denning.
What began as a mere desperate filament of thought to ease his daughter’s suffering had grown into a full-fledged woman of his imagination.
Now, he needed each part of his plan to fall into place seamlessly.
Thankfully, the first piece of his plan was in motion.
The late Marchioness’s favourite modiste, Mademoiselle Dashiell, arrived following the evening meal after being summoned by his driver Eddie earlier in the morning.
Despite his fear that Miss Potts might baulk at the idea of the process, she reported to his study with a timid smile after Millie had been gathered by her nurse for bed and been whisked away by the dressmaker to her chamber.
The next two hours were spent on measurements of Miss Potts and selecting fabrics from the array of samples.
The mantel clock chimed nine o’clock when the ladies arrived at the door of his study once more for his final approval, since it was his coin being spent and significant coin at that.
He tried to pretend he knew what he was looking at and cared about the choice of colours before him.
While he would have paid anything for the peace of mind this successful ruse would bring, he didn’t wish for the Mademoiselle to know that.
The dressmaker’s prices were high enough.
He remembered the bills for Cecily well.
He prepared himself for the exorbitant fees he would pay now for the Mademoiselle’s skill plus the hasty timeline for completion…
and the added cost for her continued loyalty and secrecy.
A sea of colourful fabrics covered what remained of his desk in the study and Mademoiselle Dashiell, Mrs Chisholm, and Miss Potts looked up at him in expectation as he studied the fabrics.
The oddity of having such trifles on his father’s old desk was not lost on William.
He wasn’t sure if his father would laugh at the absurdity of it or clap William on the back for discovering a solution to finding his way through his present issue of being an unmarried duke in the ton with gossip hounds at his doors.
‘I quite like this series of blues and emeralds,’ Mrs Chisholm stated to Mademoiselle Dashiell, running her fingertips over the fine silks, muslin and embroidered fabrics of which he had limited knowledge, other than what they felt like between his fingertips and the cost of each, silk being the most expensive if his memory served.
‘You have fine taste, Mrs Chisholm,’ Mademoiselle Dashiell agreed, her words sounding more like a rolling purr with her heavy French accent.
‘Your Grace?’ Mrs Chisholm enquired, looking at the fabrics and then him with expectation.
Rather than answering, his gaze landed on Miss Potts who sat wedged between the two women wide-eyed and silent. She hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the room.
‘Which fabrics do you prefer, Miss Potts?’ he asked.
Although he didn’t believe it possible, her eyes widened further as she studied the fabrics again. She appeared on the edge of full alarm. After another beat of examining them, she met his gaze. She started to reply and then clamped her mouth shut, her brow furrowing.
‘You shall be wearing them,’ he added. ‘Certainly you have an opinion.’
She swallowed and edged forward in her seat. The other women looked terrified by which ones she might pick. Evidently, wearing brown as a signature colour of one’s wardrobe did not build confidence in one’s fashion sensibilities.
‘May I?’ she asked, nodding to the fabric swatches.
Once in her hands, she studied each one with care and scrutiny.
After a few minutes, she set them back on the desk.
‘I have never seen or touched such fine fabrics before. Although any of them would be beautiful, I think the wine-coloured fabric would suit me best for His Grace’s celebratory ball. It shall favour my colouring more.’
The other woman baulked. ‘Such a colour in early spring?’ Mrs Chisholm asked. She shook her head. ‘I do not know, Your Grace.’
‘It would make you stand out. The other ladies will no doubt favour the softer tones this time of year,’ the Mademoiselle chimed in, glancing back and forth from the swathe of fabric to Miss Potts’s face, considering the woman’s suggestion rather than dismissing it entirely.
‘If I have won the heart of a duke, would I not be prone to such decisions to flaunt myself, especially with other women about?’ Miss Potts asked.
They faced her and her cheeks bloomed with colour. ‘I am only thinking of the Lady Penelope Denning you have created. Did I misunderstand your description of her and your wish for her to be like a Cinderella of those fairy tales, Your Grace?’ she asked.
William couldn’t help but smile. ‘No. You interpreted my words and the story to precision. She is right. This,’ he said, lifting the dark-burgundy material, ‘would be the choice of a bold, confident woman who has stolen my heart and wished to shock the ladies of the ton by not conforming to Society’s expectations. ’
Mademoiselle Dashiell smiled. ‘Then, this is the fabric I will use and I know just what style of dress I shall make. I will commission a handful of others of softer colours for daily use in case you receive callers after the event, Miss Potts. My team of seamstresses shall set upon it directly and be back for a fitting in two days’ time.
That way, alterations can be made prior to the ball on Saturday. ’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle. Be sure to send along the bill,’ William answered, relieved that the browns had been eradicated from Miss Potts’s wardrobe. Now, it was on to the next item on Mrs Chisholm’s list.
‘Of course, Your Grace,’ she purred, batting her eyelashes at him.
His stomach churned. It would be one hell of a bill, but it would be worth it, he reminded himself as she gathered up the fabrics and left.
‘And now for the rest of you,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Miss Potts,’ she added when the woman failed to rise. ‘Follow me,’ Mrs Chisholm commanded.
Miss Potts sent William a mournful glance before leaving the room and he couldn’t help but chuckle. Heaven only knew what she would be subjected to now. He glanced at the bay of windows and noted the pitch-black sky and smiled. What had begun as a day of uncertainty had ended with a plan in place.
They had six days to prepare for a ball and for the big reveal of Lady Penelope Denning—for once, he could hardly wait for the day of a fussy ball to arrive.
Hattie closed her chamber door with hesitation.
While she was relieved to have survived the measuring, poking, prodding and fabric selection with Mademoiselle Dashiell, what was coming next was of greater uncertainty.
Slowly, she followed the low murmurs and headed towards the elegant bath nestled within her chambers.
The large porcelain tub with its extravagant claw feet was filled with steaming water and rose petals of all things.
Hattie commanded herself not to gasp. She could not wait to tell Ophelia about this.
She would never believe her, of course. Nor would Trudy. Hattie was staring at it and she didn’t believe it. Who lived like this? Evidently the late Marchioness had.
‘Good evening, Miss Potts. We have prepared a bath for you as requested by Mrs Chisholm. Are you ready?’ the elder of the two young maids asked with a timid smile.
Hattie stood at the threshold and breathed in the fragrant steaming rose-scented waters and sighed.
This would not be so bad after all. When Mrs Chisholm had declared Miss Potts was to be ‘scrubbed and refreshed down to the bones’, Hattie had feared for her well-being.
Now, she was relieved. The woman merely wanted her to have a proper bath and have her hair washed.
Despite feeling shy about disrobing in front of two women she did not know, Hattie did so with some speed and then stepped into the hot water.
She did sigh then. It was exquisite. She eased herself into the water, letting the heat spread through her as she eased back.
To her surprise the water was deep enough to cover most of her and only her head, neck and shoulders were exposed.
She leaned back, closed her eyes and relaxed, feeling the ache in her shoulder which, while she didn’t need the sling today, was still tender.
She was lucky she had minimal bruising, which wouldn’t show in a gown.
Then she felt fingers threading through her hair. She started at first.
‘I shall just remove your hairpins and ribbons, Miss Potts. Then we will wash your hair and scrub you down.’
She stilled. While the first part sounded just fine, she wasn’t so sure about being ‘scrubbed down’. She was perfectly capable of scrubbing herself. Gently the pins were pulled from her hair one after another.
The comb pulled less gently. Hattie winced. ‘Sorry, Miss,’ the younger maid whispered. ‘I must get the tangles out before we wash it.’
‘Of course,’ she murmured and then cringed as the girl worked the tangles out with a bit more force than she expected.
Hattie closed her eyes. This was all for a better life.
One week of pretending stood between her and a new life for Lady Millie, herself and hopefully for Ophelia and Trudy, too.
All she needed to do was become someone else entirely.
How many times had she wished such as a young girl in the orphanage?
Honestly, this ruse might be more natural for her than she ever expected or wished to admit to.
The three of them had whiled away many a rainy afternoon in the orphanage pretending to be the long-lost daughters of a lady of high esteem in a household where they had all they wished for: care, safety, love and the extravagance of having a family, which was what they all had desired more than anything else in the world.
Even now, if she allowed herself to imagine it for a moment, she still wanted it: a family of her own.
A husband, children and a place they all could call home.
One final tug yanked Hattie back and she opened her eyes, her brief daydream vanishing. ‘Ow.’ She winced, unable to ignore the force.
‘Apologies, Miss,’ the younger of the two women said, releasing her hair and coming into view. She bit her lip and wrung her hands, her grey eyes widening. The poor girl couldn’t be more than seventeen.
‘I know my hair must be a fright,’ Hattie chuckled, trying to put her at ease. ‘Do what you must.’
‘You have beautiful hair, Miss,’ she said. ‘I am new here. Susie left to get some hair oils to soften and condition it. I am still learning.’
‘Oh?’ Hattie replied, dropping her voice. ‘Then we shall get along well. I have only been here a bit over a week myself. Perhaps we shall muddle through together? I’m Hattie,’ she said.
The girl smiled and nodded. ‘I would like that. Thank you, Miss. I’m Emma.’
The girl lifted the comb and Hattie sat back, relaxed to know she was not the only one who was nervous and uncertain about…everything.
‘I think it is brave of you to help His Grace and his daughter as you are,’ Emma stated, running the comb gently through Hattie’s hair.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. Some of those women of the ton are absolutely horrid.’ Then she gasped. ‘I should not have said that. My apologies, Miss.’
Hattie covered her mouth and then chuckled aloud. ‘Perhaps not, but I do not disagree with you, even though I cannot say I have met anyone with any great means,’ she replied with a wink.
The older servant girl entered the chamber and the two of them reset their features and fell silent before the woman entered the bathroom. Hattie smothered her smile and closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t give herself or the young maid away.
Perhaps everything would be fine after all.
The older girl lifted one of Hattie’s arms and started scrubbing with some force. She cringed.
Well, maybe, anyway.