Chapter 3 #2
His aunt had risen from a desk by the window of her sitting room, to her petite, dignified height without any difficulty. Her tidy flaxen bun, freshly pressed afternoon gown, and friendly expression eased an anxiety Richard had been ignoring.
No obvious signs of illness, save for a slight puffiness about her face and hands. Her gray silk dress was bang up to the Mayfair mark for fashion, complete with blue piping at the seams and a modest flounce for the underskirt.
No resemblance to Mama, but every inch a lady.
“My lord.” She dipped a curtsey. “I have longed for this day, dreamed of it, and prayed for it. Welcome to Shepherd’s Glen.”
How many times had Richard’s presence at a polite gathering been patently unwelcome, or worse, merely tolerated because ejecting him would have caused talk?
Here, he was welcomed by family. “Mrs. Fielding, the pleasure is entirely mine. Had I known of our connection, I would have come north much sooner.”
“Do have a seat,” Mrs. Fielding said, gesturing to a tufted grouping assembled around an empty hearth. “Mabel, might you see about some tea? I always wake up from my nap a bit peckish.”
Mabel, resident Valkyrie, towering over her mama, nodded and withdrew. She either trusted Richard to behave himself—which he would—or she would never openly question a maternal order.
“You must take that gilded chair,” Mrs. Fielding said, “so that I might feast my eyes upon the sight of my own dear Marie’s darling boy.”
Before Richard could assist his aunt, she’d ensconced herself in a corner of a love seat.
He took the indicated chair somewhat gingerly, given its delicate proportions.
The sitting room itself was a pleasing balance of elegance and practicality.
The wallpaper was a lively blue green patterned to represent foliage interspersed with purple and gold birds.
The upholstery echoed the hues of the wallpaper, while gilded frames on two landscapes, a sampler, and a mirror echoed the golden birds.
An oasis of style in an otherwise slightly downtrodden country manor.
“Marie never mentioned you to her darling boy,” Richard said, “and I am unhappy about that.”
“Marie doubtless had her reasons and her regrets,” Mrs. Fielding replied. “Let us not speak ill of the dear departed. Tell me of London and of yourself. I hear you’ve been to Portugal.”
She was entitled to some small talk while she regarded him so searchingly.
“I more or less banished myself to Portugal. I’d finished university in the usual style, which is to say half inebriated and without gainful employment.
A predictable procession of poor judgments and worse behaviors followed, until I realized that I’d best take myself in hand. ”
Lest he be taken in hand by the sponging houses or blacklegs.
Mrs. Fielding waved a pale hand. “Growing pains. Young men are prone to them. I am close to my old schoolmates, several of whom bide in Town. The antics of their sons, nephews, and godsons have made for amusing correspondence.”
“Was my mother prone to growing pains and antics?” Though how could growing pains inspire a young woman to flee a good marriage for a life in service?
Another dismissive wave. “If she was, that is all very much ancient history. Tell me how you landed in sunny Portugal.”
That tale also qualified as old news. “I needed a fresh start, away from London and its associations. Many officers returning from the Continent spoke fondly of Portugal, and to a man, they were equally appreciative of port wine.”
“So you became a wine merchant. How practical and shrewd. Gentlemen must have their port, and you needed to get on in life. I approve, if that matters.”
“That matters to me, ma’am. I also trade in Madeira and the occasional obscure vintage if it appeals to my palate. I was very fortunate to have good teachers as I learned the trade.”
Good teachers and a bit of cash, courtesy of Sorcha, Lady Barclay.
“You will find that Wealtha also had good teachers. She attended Miss Gundridge’s Select Academy, near Leeds, as I did. Many a London lady sends her daughters there. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
“I have, in truth, avoided the daughters of London ladies for the most part, and thus their preferred academies are unknown to me. What else should I know about Miss Blackstock?”
Mrs. Fielding waxed loquacious about Richard’s sister, who was adept at needlepoint, a talented soprano, a fine dancer, capable with watercolors, and an excellent conversationalist.
A paragon, in other words. Daunting prospect. “Was my mother similarly accomplished in all the ladylike arts?”
“Marie was… I hardly know how to describe her. She raised you, and thus you know of her abilities firsthand. She could sing well enough and did read poetry nicely. Wealtha isn’t much of one for poetry, in that she takes after her father.
Abernathy Blackstock was the sort to be up and doing, not sitting idly about with a book. ”
Richard rather enjoyed sitting idly about with a book. Up and doing all the time could leave a fellow tired, irritable, and without much interesting conversation.
Miss Fielding reappeared, a footman pushing a tea cart in her wake. Plain blue porcelain service, no lacy edges to the linen. The plain service contrasted subtly with the graceful touches and stylish décor of the sitting room.
In addition to striking wallpaper, Orla Fielding’s private domain boasted green carpet patterned with vivid purple and teal roses among floral embellishments.
The curtains were blue lace and the oak sideboard inlaid with a pretty pattern of chestnut and nacre.
The runner was embroidered to echo the pattern in the carpet, as was the embroidered border of the sampler on the wall opposite the fireplace.
Who can find a virtuous woman, for her price is far above rubies.
“Mabel, do join us,” Mrs. Fielding said. “We’ve been discussing his lordship’s investments. Exotic and practical, an interesting combination. Might you pour for us?”