Chapter Thirty-seven
“Have you completely lost your senses?” whispered Betsy urgently as she trailed Sylvie into the opulent bedchamber that had been allocated for her use. “We cannot stay here. What will his Lordship say?”
“I tried to decline,” said Sylvie, “but the Comte rather insisted. And… well… he’s promised to tell me what I need to know. All he asks in return is the pleasure of my company for the evening.”
“What!” Betsy gasped, grabbing her mistress’s hands in horror, pinning her with a frantic stare. “You cannot be serious! Please, Sylvie… please tell me you did not agree to such a thing? His Lordship would never forgive you. No, no, Sylvie, no.”
“I knew the risk,” said Sylvie gently. “And yes, my husband may not be best pleased at first, but I’m convinced he will come to understand I am only doing this for him.
And besides, the Dowager Countess will be joining us, and I have to admit, I am quite looking forward to her company.
I hear she is rather eccentric and quite risqué. ”
“Risqué!” Betsy spluttered. “And the Dowager Countess is to join you? What sort of debauched depravity is this?
Sylvie took a step back, staring at Betsy in bewilderment. “Whatever has got into you?”
“He… he actually said the words… for you to spend the evening with him, and his mother! And you agreed!”
“Yes,” said Sylvie, perplexed and amused at Betsy’s display of histrionics. “And as I have only my travelling clothes, the Comte is kindly sending something along for me to wear. Oh… “ A brisk knock sounded, “…here it is now.”
“My lady,” the housekeeper said briskly, dipping a curtsey as she entered, shadowed by a maid bearing a gown of shimmering ice-blue silk.
Behind her came others with a tub, hot water, drying cloths, and an array of powders, soaps, and scented oils.
Another maid appeared with matching slippers, ribbons, pearl pins, and a choker, while under the watchful eye of the housekeeper, delicate undergarments and an embroidered night rail were laid out.
Sylvie’s eyes widened as yet more dresses were carried in and placed in the armoire.
“For tomorrow, my lady,” said the housekeeper in reply to Sylvie’s look. “The Comte thought you might wish for fresh travelling attire.”
Before Sylvie could reply, a commanding female voice rang from the hall.
“Where is she… this Marchioness who invades my home without invitation?”
The flurry of activity immediately halted as the owner of the voice sailed through the doorway in a rustle of silk. All the maids dipped a curtsey and awaited the flourish of her hand and the impatient, “Yes, yes… carry on.”
Betsy and Sylvie, still standing side by side, froze as a vision of elegance and beauty appeared before them.
Tall and statuesque, her hair the colour of moonlight was intricately swept up and held in place by a jewel-encrusted comb, her vivid violet eyes narrowing as she appraised the young woman before her.
“Hmm,” she sniffed, and Sylvie instinctively dipped a deep curtsey.
“Good lord, child, whatever are you doing?” the Dowager exclaimed. “You are a Marchioness… you do not bow to your inferiors. Though I admit, I do appreciate the respect.”
Startled into silence, Sylvie could only stare as the Dowager Countess glanced over to the bed, inspecting the items with a swift, calculating eye, then turned sharply back.
“He was right, of course. You will look well in the ice blue.” Then, without any preamble, she suddenly placed both her hands under Sylvie’s bosom and jiggled them up and down.
“Hm, and delectably better endowed than poor Sophia, the ridiculous creature is particularly underwhelming in that department. You will do well to wear the sheer fichu, tucked well in. We wouldn’t want any spillage over dinner, would we, my dear?
You are rather distracting enough already, and, as I understand it is my duty to ensure your reputation and respectability stay intact, you shall come to my rooms when you are dressed. I shall see to it myself.”
She waited for a reply, but Sylvie just stared back, wide-eyed.
“Oh, pray tell, you are not a timid, simpering creature, and I have to brace myself for an excruciatingly dull evening.”
“Um… no, not usually, my lady,” replied Sylvie, not quite sure if she was amused or scandalised, but decided she had nothing to lose in being honest. “Though I must admit, I do not normally have my bosom so thoroughly examined by my hostesses before dinner, tis all.”
“Excellent!” declared the Dowager Countess, and without another word, sailed from the room with a trail of maids following close behind like obedient ducklings following their mother.
Silence hung in the air for several long seconds after the door was closed before Sylvie and Betsy collapsed into helpless laughter.
“Is she always like that?” whispered Sylvie to the only remaining maid.
With a cheeky grin, the girl nodded. “The old Earl used to say her younger years in France had left their mark.”
“Really? Do you know much of the family history?”
Leaning closer, she whispered, “Oh, yes, my lady. My family has served the Hayfords for generations.”
“Go on,” encouraged Sylvie and Betsy in unison.
“Well…” said the young maid, and at the look of expectant delight on her audience’s faces, hurried on.
“The Dowager’s first husband, the Comte’s father, died when he was very young, and she returned to England and married the Earl of Hayford.
The Comte de Roche was schooled here, in England, his French estates held in trust until he came of age.
His half-brother, Phillippe, heir to the Earldom of Hayford, adored him and spent most of his time in France, and married a French girl, Lady Sophia.
Three years ago, the old Earl died, and only six months later, Phillippe followed, leaving Jean-Marc, his two-year-old son, heir to Hayford.
Lady Sophia immediately upped sticks and returned to France with Jean-Marc and refuses to leave.
Between us,” she added, lowering her voice, “the Comte is not well pleased. Nor is the Dowager Countess. But he’s allowed the boy to stay with his mother until he turns six, or she remarries.
Though I doubt she’ll be quick about that. ”
“Oh?” said Sylvie, “Is the poor Lady Sophia so bereft with grief?”
“Pff,” snorted the maid. “No, that one knows exactly which side her bread is buttered, and she does like her comforts, if you pardon me. “
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Forgive me for saying, but Lady Sophia will not be cutting any ties with the Comte. As the grieving widow of his beloved brother, he still treats her as family and being that close to him comes with its advantages. The house of Roche is a revered, influential… and he’s richer than Croesus.”
“I see,” mused Sylvie, trailing her fingers across the ice-blue silk, admiring the opulent pearl and silver embroidery design covering the bodice. “This must certainly have cost a king’s ransom.”
“Aye,” said the maid. “Lady Sophia wears only the finest, and the Comte is the most generous benefactor. But,” she added hastily, “forgive me, my lady, I talk too much. I’d better leave you to your bath, as, as generous as the Comte is, the one thing he does not tolerate is being kept waiting for supper. ”