Chapter 12
Mary slowly came awake, the comfortable, warm feeling of peace slowly melting away to be replaced by her now familiar abashment when realizing that she had once more wrapped herself about her husband’s person while they slept.
She had never heard of a couple who shared a bed; certainly, her parents never had.
She had assumed that he would have taken himself off to his own bed sometime in the night, but every morning she awoke to his soft breath in her hair.
Despite her discomfort, or more correctly her flusteredness, she dare not address it for fear that he might leave her alone after all, just when she was becoming used to his presence.
“You seem to be deep in thought, my dear,” he rumbled, his voice deepened by sleep and contentment.
She flushed as if she had been caught out, but her voice remained steady as she asked if he had plans for the day. He smiled knowingly but allowed the deflection.
“I assume that your new hair styling will not take all of the day, so I hoped that you might be willing to go on an adventure with me. Madame Courant is most likely correct that we should be aware of your future reputation, though it seems silly to me. But suppose that Johnny and May, rather than the Viscount and Viscountess of Lingley, went to the museum? What talk could such unknown people cause?”
“But would you not be recognized?” Mary asked, raising her head to look him in the eye.
“I sent Goodman to acquire costumes which would be acceptable for a maid and footman who were stepping out together on their half day. No one of any consequence pays any attention to servants. We will be essentially invisible!”
Mary beamed at him. “I really would love to see the Musée de Napoleon. If you are sure…”
“Completely! Get your hair done and then we shall escape our rarefied circles for the rest of the day.”
She squealed with excitement and threw herself into his arms, placing a smacking kiss upon his lips. He took advantage of her position to roll her beneath him and deepened the kiss. It was some time later before they rang for their servants to prepare them for the day.
Mary was glowingly happy by the time that Monsieur Race presented himself.
That did not last long when he took one look at her hair, tsked in displeasure, and began muttering that it was as if she cared not at all that she looked as if a bird had nested in her hair overnight.
Durand gaped at the man, and Mary’s bubble of happiness was popped instantly.
“Sit! Sit!” he demanded in heavily accented French. “I must do everything myself! Next I shall have to come each day to comb her hair!”
Durand was highly offended by the idea that she would neglect her mistress’s person, but Mary hushed her with a small shake of her head.
The coiffeur reminded her of the fractious French chef whom Lady Lucas had momentarily employed soon after her husband’s elevation, in a misguided attempt to compete with Mrs. Bennet’s renowned cook.
The man had thrown such a fit that she dared to plan a dinner without his prior permission that he threw the half-cooked luncheon he had been working on against the wall and disappeared from Hertfordshire, never to be seen again.
This Mr. Race would likely leave her with half her hair cut if they reproached him.
Mary sat, silent as the grave, while he muttered and grumbled and made demands of his assistant and gave instructions to Durand.
When he declared her finished, she was terrified to see what he had done, as he had been so ill-tempered during the whole.
She thanked him politely in French, her little reminder that she had understood him the entire time and instructed a maid to see him out.
He accepted the condescension as his due and stomped from the room with his usual ill-tempered scowl.
Only then was she comfortable looking in her peer glass to see what he had done.
It was much shorter than she expected, though still below her shoulders, but somehow the usually lank curls which had always been the bane of her existence were now in a beautiful riot about her face.
She was shocked at how it changed her face, at least in her reflection.
Her features, which she had always felt looked pinched and disproportional seemed somehow piquant and interesting.
It was so much lighter, and she gave it a toss just to see it bounce and shimmer.
“Worth every insult, my lady?” Durand asked.
“Oh yes! Every single one!” Mary laughed. “Never did I imagine— It is so thick and full. Nothing like my usual sad, frizzy mess.”
“It is an awe-inspiring change to be sure,” she agreed.
“It seems almost a shame to put it up. Perhaps you should visit his lordship before we do…” Her brows wriggled playfully, making Mary blush brightly.
It deepened even further when Lingley entered through their shared sitting room and stumbled to a stop, staring open-mouthed at her.
Durand unobtrusively retreated to the dressing room and shut the door.
“May… I do not even know what to say. Your hair… it is magnificent!” He breathed, awestruck. “You have always been lovely, but dear Lord, you are, are ravishing!”
He stepped close and lifted a hand to run his fingers through her now silky curls. She hummed in pleasure, her eyes fluttering closed. “You need not flatter me, my lord.”
“Flattery is just another form of prevarication, May, and I promised never to lie to you, so you have no choice but to understand that I am completely and utterly serious.”
Mary flushed and doubted but reminded herself that what he said was true— he had never lied to her yet. Once again, she made the determination to believe what he said the first time, rather than immediately questioning his every word.
“Forgive me, I will do better.”
“It may take years, but I will convince you that I am worthy of your trust, May. You can count on me.” He hugged her tightly to his chest. “Now, are you prepared to give up your finery for the day? Shall we send for Durand?”
She laughed and shooed him away as Durand appeared as if by magic with a lovely blue dress made of middling fabric and a pair of worn but clean half-boots. “It may take some time to make adjustments, my lord. You had best see to your own toilet.”
Lingley pulled his forelock like a groom might and left the laughing ladies to their work.
Durand had the dress on and pinned within moments before whipping it off again to set the stitches.
Goodman had done well to get an approximation of her size, but the length left much to be desired and would have to be taken up at least four inches.
It was nearly an hour before Durand gave her approval to leave, reminding her that she needed to sneak down the servant’s stairs and out the rear entrance if she did not wish to advertise their plans.
Lingley led the way, sniggering like a boy stealing sweets from the cook.
They snuck past the kitchens without being caught and ran up the steps to the street before making their way to the Pont des Arts, a beautiful ironwork pedestrian bridge over the Seine.
It was only a ten-minute walk between their mansion and the museum, and Mary enjoyed the freedom of traversing the path with only her husband as companion, following along with the busy crowd of mixed humanity.
“Shall we, May?” Lingley offered his arm and gave her a gamin grin after he had paid the fee to enter.
“Yes, thank you, Johnny.” She linked her arm with his and they entered through the doors.
They spent nearly three hours meandering through the collections, though they agreed that it was a shame that the Little Emperor had felt entitled to remove so many treasures from their rightful places on the Continent.
Mary’s favorite collection was a series of ornate ceramic masks from Italy, done in fantastical colors with gold gilding.
Lingley had whispered a promise to buy her some while they stayed in Florence.
“You there! Betsy! Fetch my shawl!” a woman practically bellowed, drawing the attention of all the nearby patrons.
Mary and Lingley turned with the rest only to discover that the woman was apparently speaking to her. “Excuse me?” Mary gaped.
“Have you lost your hearing, girl? Fetch my shawl from the carriage before I catch my death of the cold! There is a very ill-favored breeze in these rooms!”
They shared a disbelieving look before Mary once again addressed the woman. “I believe you have mistaken me for one of your servants, ma’am.”
An older gentleman, of an age with the woman, grabbed her arm and gave her a shake. “How dare you address Lady Metcalf that way! You are here to serve your betters! Now be off with you before we sack you without a character!”
“I suggest you remove your hand from her person, sir!” Lingley growled, stepping in close. When the man looked set to argue, Lingley wrapped his fist around the man’s wrist and squeezed until he cried out in pain and released her.
“How dare you lay your hands upon me! We left the footman in the carriage! Who are you?” He cried. “Do you know who you have accosted? I am Baron Metcalf and I shall see you hung!”
Lingley leaned into the shorter man’s rotund face and looked him up and down.
“I should like to see you try. Take a very good look at me, as you shall need to be able to tell the Garde Nationale what I look like. You shall find me at the home of the Earl of Ashford at no. ________. Ask for John Lingley.”
The name did not register with Lord Metcalf, who shook impotently as he glanced about and noticed that the surrounding crowd did not look to be in support of his position. “Enjoy your freedom today, for tomorrow you shall be arrested!” he spat before hurrying his wife from the building.
“We should have just pretended to obey and left,” Mary muttered as he led her to a refreshment stand and bought her a glass of chilled wine.