Chapter 5
April 11, 1803
A few hours after Lady Vetry and Clara arrived home, Hortense walked into the drawing room wearing an enchanting walking gown that might have graced a duchess.
A moment later, she had shed her dignity along with her French accent. Clara sighed. She tried to let her mother’s criticisms roll off her back, but Hortense’s temper flared every time Lady Vetry criticized her.
“I cannot produce miracles! Your daughter is not slender enough for current fashion, charming enough to draw suitors, nor articulate enough to intimidate them,”
she said with stinging clarity. “She can’t even watercolor!” She turned to Clara and said, “Forgive me for my bluntness. You do make those ravishing little reticules, but gentlemen have no taste.”
“Don’t mention those whiskered eccentricities,”
Lady Vetry ordered, without disputing Hortense’s assessment. “You put my daughter in a corset that hoisted her bosom to her chin!”
“If you want to sell an apple, you polish it,”
the maid snapped back. “But if I understand you, Miss Vetry slapped the heir to the throne. If you’d warned me of her reckless disposition, I’d have never taken the position!”
“Warned you? I consider you to be responsible for the scandal,”
Lady Vetry retorted. “You dressed Clara in a gown that made the prince mistake her for a strumpet. Not only that, but apparently the Princess of Wales called my daughter—who traces her ancestry to King Henry VII—a trollop, albeit in that confounded language of hers.”
Hortense’s lip curled. “No one could have foreseen this debacle. Tomorrow’s gossip columns will speak of nothing else.”
“You won’t be here to read them,”
Lady Vetry said triumphantly. “The two of you are off to Scotland first thing in the morning. I’ve sent the butler to hire a post chaise that will take you from the Parrot and Pickle straight to the Great North Road. You’ll live with our dear relative Lady Esther Ferguson through the summer at the least. As a titled lady, she is at the pinnacle of Scottish society . . . such as it is.”
Hortense recoiled. “You are sending us in a public vehicle? I have never been asked to travel in such a ramshackle fashion!”
“It’s not the public stagecoach,”
Lady Vetry retorted. “I have only one carriage, which I shall require here. Of course my daughter—and her maid—will travel in comfort. I shall dispatch linens and silverware with you.”
“If you think—”
Clara sat to the side of the room, trying to ignore the escalating battle, wondering if she should retreat upstairs and take another bath. She’d had one as soon as they entered the house, but she could still feel the impression of Prince George’s fingers—and the slimy warmth of bird excrement.
“I paid you a great sum of money on the premise that you would find a husband for my daughter,”
her mother hissed.
“No one could have anticipated this development.”
“That’s not what you said when you demanded hundreds of pounds paid in advance!”
Lady Vetry snapped. “Tomorrow morning you will accompany my daughter to Scotland and act as her chaperone. Clara must be adequately turned out to catch a suitor’s eye, but not so much as to attract lascivious attention.”
“She slapped the future king, and no matter whether His Highness deserved it, which he surely did,”
Hortense said, with a surprising flash of sympathy, “now your daughter is”—snapping her fingers—“how do you say? Anathema!”
Her French accent had abruptly returned.
“Not in Scotland!”
Lady Vetry said in triumph. “Highlanders are patriotic. Find her one of those. Find her a lard.”
A moment of puzzled silence followed.
“Not ‘lard’—laird,”
Clara exclaimed. “Highland chieftains are lairds.”
“The word is ‘lard,’”
her mother said coldly.
“A man named Walter Scott wrote a long poem, ‘Glenfinlas,’ about a laird, Lord Roland, who was torn to bits.”
Her mother frowned. “Was it historical? I don’t think the Scots are at war.”
Clara shook her head. “’Twas done by a fiend, who sailed away on the midnight wind.”
“Utter rubbish!”
Lady Vetry said. “I blame myself for the warping of your imagination. I should never have allowed you to move on from The Book of Common Prayer. Even the Bible contains overly stimulating material for an innocent mind.”
“Miss Vetry’s unmarried state cannot be blamed on a penchant for reading about dismembered bodies,”
Hortense pronounced, rising to her feet. “I shall do my best in Scotland, Lady Vetry. I think it only fair to warn you that I have grave reservations about my ability to succeed.”
“Noted,”
Clara’s mother said sourly.
“If we are to leave tomorrow morning, I must begin to pack. Especially since we are traveling so haphazardly.”
“You’ll not include a single whiskered reticule in my daughter’s trunk,”
Lady Vetry ordered. “Throw them all out. If one is seen in public, it will stir up the scandal all over again.”
A few minutes later, Clara sank into a chair in her bedchamber. She still felt shaky and had decided that she definitely wanted another bath. She opened Lady Maclairn, the Victim of Villainy, but the heroine was endlessly “giving herself up to tears,”
and because Clara wouldn’t have minded doing the same, she put it to the side.
Ten minutes later, Hortense swept in with Betsy, one of the upstairs chambermaids, followed by a footman carrying a double-layer trunk with a curved top banded with etched brass.
“Wrap Miss Vetry’s clothing in cotton, but the evening gowns in silk,”
Hortense instructed Betsy. “Daily garments, underclothing, necessities, and so on at the bottom. The removable shelf at the top should contain only evening gowns so they aren’t crushed. I shall be in my chambers.”
“‘Chambers’?”
Clara repeated after the door closed.
“Miss Hortense uses the room next to hers as a dressing room,”
Betsy explained. “Did you know that she was about to be presented to the King of France when he had his head chopped off? Her aunt was poor Queen Marie Antoinette’s lady-in-waiting.”
Right. Hortense would have been around ten years old during the Terror.
“I need a trunk for my books.”
The maid’s hands twisted together. “She said no books.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,”
Clara cried, exasperated. “I am your mistress, not Hortense.”
“I didn’t mean her,”
Betsy said. “It’s Lady Vetry, miss. She said no books and no reticules.”
Bollocks.
“I shall pack them myself while you fetch more hot water from the kitchen.”
Betsy gaped. “Another bath?”
“With my apologies to the footman for asking him to drag pails up the stairs again. Since I’ll pack my books, you can answer with complete honesty that you had nothing to do with it.”
After Betsy left, Clara put a layer of favorite novels on the bottom of the trunk, followed by eight reticules, nicely padded with white cotton and held in place by another layer of books that she could not leave behind. The rest would have to be sent to her later.
Then she sank into the bathtub while Betsy packed the rest of the trunk.
“These evening gowns won’t fit,”
the maid exclaimed, dismayed. She was holding a stack of three dresses, carefully wrapped in silk.
“Put them on a chair to the side,”
Clara suggested. “They could be accidentally left behind.”
“That would be worth my position,”
Betsy gasped. “I’ll take them upstairs to Hortense. She has two trunks, and she can fit them in somewhere.”
“Two trunks?”
“That’s why Lady Vetry allowed her to use an extra room as a dressing chamber. You can’t see the floor for her belongings.”
When Betsy returned, Clara reluctantly climbed out of the bath and began drying her hair before the fire. She was lucky that her hair could be coaxed into fashionable ringlets—and unlucky because its yellow color had lent itself to Prince George’s obsession with cupids.
The following morning, she once again found it hard to climb out of her bath. She was still plagued by the visceral memory of the prince’s grasp—and no matter how much she washed and perfumed her breasts, she kept catching a whiff of cherry brandy.
When she was finally dressed for travel, and Betsy was packing her brush and other accessories into small cotton bags that fit neatly into the corners of the trunk, her mother appeared in the doorway.
Clara turned about and curtsied. “Good morning, Mother. We’re finished.”
“We?”
Lady Vetry repeated magisterially. “Where is Hortense? Why is my daughter engaged in menial labor?”
Hortense strolled in the room and dropped a shallow curtsy. “Good morning, Lady Vetry.”
“I have money to give you,”
Lady Vetry said to Clara. “Hand me your reticule.”
“You demanded that they all be thrown out.”
“You had only animal reticules?”
her mother cried. “I suppose you may use this.” She handed over a velvet bag edged with pearls. “These sovereigns should keep you for six months, but you may contact our man of business in the Inns of Court if you need more. I have written to instruct him that your dowry and choice of husband are now in your hands.”
Her wrinkled nose made it clear that she was washing her hands of the situation—along with her unsuccessful daughter.
“Thank you,”
Clara said quietly, slipping the sack into her left pocket. When one’s own mother couldn’t muster up affection, hadn’t it been rank stupidity to dream of a love match? She had hoped to meet a man as wonderful as the heroes in her favorite novels. She’d also hoped for a castle, so maybe she should give up men and focus on that. Reportedly Scotland had as many castles as daisies in a ditch.
“Here’s another bag with farthings, ha’pennies, shillings, and a few florins that you can use for tipping the coachman,”
Lady Vetry instructed. “Your coachman is not our employee, so don’t forget to give him a shilling every morning. You’ll spend at least ten days on the road, and he must ensure that the innkeeper gives you an excellent room.”
Clara nodded, pushing the second bag into the same pocket, leaving a visible lump against her thigh.
“Put my letter into your other pocket,”
her mother said.
“Thank you,”
Clara murmured, taking it.
“Finally, I shall give you a miniature of me made by that fellow Joshua Reynolds. I’ve decided to commission a more flattering one by James Northcote.”
Lady Vetry handed the oval frame studded with pearls to Betsy, who promptly began rolling it in layers of cotton. “I would hope that my image will remind you of the precepts I have tried to instill in you. Why aren’t you wearing the red mantle with the squirrel trim?”
Clara had chosen a rather shabby cloak that had the advantage of covering every inch of her body, including her neck.
“Due to the quality of vehicle we’re traveling in,”
Hortense cut in, “I thought it best if we dress in colors that disguise dust.”
Lady Vetry narrowed her eyes, but the maid gave her an innocent look. Clara felt a wash of gratitude; Hortense might shout regrettable things when she was in a fury, but she always apologized and tried to shield Clara from her mother’s displeasure.
Once in the carriage taking them to the Parrot he was wearing a thick woolen coat buckled around his waist rather than a crimson cloak with three capes, and he was chewing on an unlit cigar. The hair on his upper lip stuck out to the sides, curling up in a style she’d never seen before.
“You the housekeeper?”
he demanded without a trace of civility. “You was supposed to be here yesterday. I was thinkin’ you’d scarpered and weren’t coming at all!”
Her breath started coming quickly; agreeing with him would be the bravest thing she’d ever done—and that included slapping the prince. “I won’t get into a coach with just anyone,”
she declared. “Who are you waiting for, and what is your destination?”
He rolled his eyes. “How many housekeepers are headed for the Highlands, then?”
She only barely suppressed a gasp. The Highlands! A castle was one thing . . . but a castle in the Highlands? She mustered up a cool look. “I might be the only such housekeeper, but I’d still like to know your destination and the name of the woman you’re waiting for.”
He took out a piece of paper and squinted at it. “Mrs. Potts, bound for Castle CaerLaven. That you?”
Clara’s heart was beating in her throat. Who could say no to Castle CaerLaven? What a darling name. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head, declaring that this would be the most impulsive and stupid decision of her life, surpassing her so-called assault on Prince George.
“Yes,”
she croaked. And then, when he scowled, she raised her chin and said, “I am Mrs. Potts.”
“Where are your things, then?”
She nodded at her trunk, on the ground beside Hortense.
He grunted, took his unlit cigar from his mouth and stuck it in his pocket before striding over to the other coach.
Clara ran after him.
“That man is touching your belongings!”
Hortense cried. “Here, you—”
Clara caught her arm. “I’m going with him.”
The maid’s mouth fell open. “What did you say?”
“He’s fetching a housekeeper to a castle in the Highlands.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can’t visit an ancient aunt who’s never met me in my life,”
Clara said. “I can’t . . . I can’t do it any longer, Hortense. I don’t want to marry a drunken Scottish vagabond. In fact, I don’t want to get married at all.”
“I don’t blame you, but what has that got to do with anything?”
“I’ve never been good enough for Lady Vetry. Never, Hortense, and I never will be.”
“Your mother is a—”
“I have to escape. If I take this position as a housekeeper—”
“You can’t be a housekeeper!”
Hortense cried, interrupting in turn. “I couldn’t be a housekeeper. You’ll be fired within the week. If you don’t mind my saying so, I consider you intensely unpractical, which is not a desirable attribute for that particular position.”
“That’s all right,”
Clara said, giving her a giddy smile. “I don’t mind. I have my dowry. I can live in Scotland quite happily. My mother told me to buy a husband, but I don’t want one. I think I’ll buy a small castle instead and fill it with books.”
Hortense gaped at her.
“Please don’t tell my mother where I’ve gone. Please.”
She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “Lady Vetry would vastly prefer not to think about me. I’ve always been a disappointment. I want to stop trying to make her happy, and the best way to do that is to live in another country.”
“You shouldn’t have to try!”
Hortense cried without a trace of a French accent, her voice as aristocratically English as cut glass. “I truly can’t bear your mother.”
“Thank you,”
Clara said with a wobbly smile. “She prepaid you through the summer, right? So please, could you simply do something out of society’s view for a few months? That way she’ll assume we’re together.”
“Nonsense. I shall come with you. A housekeeper?”
“Only until I am fired,”
Clara told her. “I’d rather go alone, Hortense.”
Her maid’s brows drew together. “You won’t be safe. This is a very reckless decision, and I can’t allow—”
“You have no choice,”
Clara said, breaking in. “I’ve spent my life doing everything Lady Vetry ordered me to, and I am done, Hortense. I am certain that I can keep myself safe—safer than I was in a garden party, in company with a good many noblemen who didn’t lift a hand to help after I was accosted.”
“I’m very sorry that happened to you,”
Hortense said. “Miss Vetry, you have no idea how to be a servant.”
“You’d better call me Clara, don’t you think? We shall both be living belowstairs, after all. When you’re not pretending to be French, you sound as much a lady as I do.”
Hortense winced.
“You are a lady who learned to be a servant, and so shall I.”
“But traveling alone? Your mother would . . . No, I can’t say that she would worry about you.”
Hortense had a remarkable ability to voice unpleasant truths.
“She’d worry about damage to the family name,”
Clara said. For that reason, Lady Vetry would have hysterics at the idea of her daughter accepting a post as a housekeeper. “Running away is better for my mother and for me.”
“But you have no idea how vulnerable young women can be belowstairs.”
“Did anything unpleasant happen to you at our house?”
Hortense blinked. “Me? No one would dare.”
“I’ll imitate you, then,”
Clara said.
“You did slap the future king,”
Hortense remarked with a reluctant smile. “I’m not sure even I would go that far.”
“His Majesty isn’t the first man to be poked by the whiskers on my reticules,”
Clara admitted. “If I hadn’t been raised to revere royalty, Prince George would have felt the sting of those wires years ago.”
“I did notice the reticules are no longer in your bedchamber. I suppose they are in your trunk?”
“My mother has washed her hands of me, and I have taken the opportunity to wash my hands of her commands,”
Clara said, the truth becoming clearer to her with every word. “I shall never return to English society. Ever.”
Hortense looked reluctantly admiring. “Be careful. Men can be vile. Maids and housekeepers are seen as fair game, and wire whiskers won’t be effective in every situation.”
“In the last years I learned a great deal about lustful men while trying to avoid His Majesty’s advances.”
“You’d better take this,”
Hortense said, twisting a ring off her finger and handing it to Clara.
It was a pretty gold ring, chased with ivy. “I couldn’t take your ring.”
“My mother would want you to have it,”
Hortense said, stepping back. “She loved adventure. The only way you’ll escape being accosted is if men think you’re married. And in any case, every housekeeper is supposedly married.”
“The coachman did say that he was waiting for Mrs. Potts.”
Clara glanced down at the band. “I could buy a ring.”
“This one will bring you good luck,”
Hortense said. “I’d rather you have it than me.”
Clara slid it onto her ring finger, and it fit perfectly. “Thank you,”
she said. “I’m so grateful, Hortense, truly.”
“Your mother paid me a great deal, more than the ring is worth. Wear it always, Clara. Without it, any man on the street might feel emboldened to drag you into an alley and kiss you, or worse. You don’t know what life is like without a maid or a chaperone at your heels.”
Clara nodded. “I promise I won’t take it off.”
She waved at the vehicle her mother had hired. “This carriage has to go somewhere outside London, or Lady Vetry will discover the truth. Perhaps you might visit your family, if they live in the country?”
Something flickered in Hortense’s eyes. “I could do that.”
“Do you have enough money?”
Clara began to drag out one of the velvet bags.
Hortense caught her wrist. “I’m fine. As you said, your mother prepaid me. Despite my better judgment, I think you’re doing the right thing. I can imagine you in a castle full of books. Perhaps you’ll meet a man like Valancourt.”
Clara grinned at her. “I didn’t know you read novels! I adore The Mysteries of Udolpho.”
“I like Valancourt, but Emily? All her ‘timid sweetness’ made me sick to my stomach.”
The coachman bound for Castle CaerLaven had finished strapping her trunk atop his coach and had started bellowing.
“Time to go,”
Clara said. She hesitated and then leaned in to drop a kiss on Hortense’s cheek. “I wish I’d known you were a reader. Thank you for your help this Season. It wasn’t your fault that I was such a dismal failure.” Without waiting for a reply, she dashed over to the other coach.
“Get in,”
the coachman said, pulling open the door. “I hope to God you used the necessity, because we won’t be stopping except to change horses until nightfall.”
Nightfall?
“I need a mounting block,”
Clara pointed out.
“Poppycock!”
He turned to a postillion lounging at one of his horse’s heads. “Fred, jump up, blast you. We’re off immediately.”
Clara narrowed her eyes at him in a reasonable simulation of her mother. “I’ll beg you to be more civil, sir.”
Without a second’s hesitation, the man grabbed her around the waist and tossed her into the coach, slamming the door behind her. Clara only escaped smashing into a closed wicker basket by throwing herself onto one of the leather seats. The carriage jolted into motion.
They were off.
To Scotland!