Page 13 of The Secret Word
But why not try a new style? “Yes, thank you, Martha.”
If nothing else, her encounter with Chris Satterthwaite had inspired her to take a firmer line with her maid, and the past two days had been much more pleasant. And there she was, thinking about him again. The sad truth was that her life was a dull round of fashionable events at which nobody spoke to her, and afternoons during which nobody visited her.
She had concluded somewhat sadly she had been ready to believe Amanda Brown’s lies, not because she was kind, but because she was bored. Being nearly kidnapped, rescued by Chris, and introduced to Mr. O’Hara had been the most excitement she’d had in a long time.
And yesterday afternoon had been lovely. Chris had spoken to her, and not to her breasts. She supposed he was after her money, but he was at least putting in some effort to court her,instead of assuming that the person to woo was her father. He took her questions seriously and answered them.
Such a contrast to the ball she had been to the night before last, where, as usual, she had stood with her chaperone, and spent the evening being ignored while the woman chatted with her friends. And to last night’s musicale and the subsequent event, a rout, at both of which the same scenario replayed, except she was approached by one of the more persistent fortune hunters who her father had already rejected. He seemed to think she was the one who had refused him and that the way to persuade her to change her mind was a series of fulsome and insincere compliments.
“There, Miss,” said Martha.
Clem focused on the mirror, and was stunned. “You are a magician, Martha.” She turned her head from side to side, and Martha picked up a hand mirror to show her the back. Instead of pinning everything tightly back, she had pinned a wave into the sides, teased a few strands to drift over her ears, and caught the remainder up into a soft roll.
“I don’t look nearly so square jawed,” she noticed. “Martha, I love it.”
“It’s pretty, Miss. And if I might be so bold…”
“Please, if you have any more ideas, I would like to hear them.”
“Can I take some of the flounces off your dresses, Miss? They are too fussy for you. Make you look wider and shorter, if you don’t mind me saying so. The colors aren’t the best they could be, but we can’t do nothing about that unless you want to start again. But we could take the frills and fuss off.”
The frills and flounces had not been Clem’s idea. “My sponsor, Mrs. Bellowes, insisted that my gowns were highly fashionable and appropriate for a girl making her Season, but I agree, Martha. They are too fussy for me. As to the colors,I don’t think Father would let me start again, but I would be very grateful if you do what you can. What do you think of the carriage dress I have out for today?”
Martha narrowed her eyes. “I can have that flounce off in a few minutes, Miss, and if you wear it with the pale blue redingote and your cream scarf, it will do very well.”
It did very well indeed. Clem could not claim that she was pretty, but she looked smart, for once. The difference was astonishing. “Martha, if I can talk Father into new dresses, you must come with me to help me choose,” she said.
Goodness. Who would have thought two days ago that Martha would become an ally!
A knock on the door proved to be Charles, to announce Mr. Satterthwaite had arrived and was in the drawing room. With a lift of her heart that was not entirely due to her new hair style and the improved gown, Clem went down to meet him.
His eyes widened when he saw her. “Is that a new way of wearing your hair?” he asked. “I like it.”
“I do, too,” Clem said. “Martha is good with hair.”
Chris grinned at Martha, who had followed Clem, carrying her coat and hat. “Good day, Martha. Well done with the hair. Are you ready, Miss Wright? My mentor tells me that one must not keep the horses waiting.”
“Your mentor?”
“You shall meet him in a minute, and I will explain,” Chris promised, taking the coat from Martha and holding it for Clem to put on. Martha fitted the bonnet to Clem’s head and tied her ribbon, and Clem pulled on her gloves. “I am ready, Mr. Satterthwaite,” she said. “Thank you, Martha.”
A smart phaeton was drawn up at the bottom of the steps. The man at the reins doffed his hat to Clem. “Miss Wright,” said Chris, “allow me to make known to you the Honorable JohnBagshaw. Mr. Bagshaw has been kind enough to take me on as a pupil to learn how to drive a fashionable vehicle such as this.”
He leaned close, as if to impart a secret, but he did not lower his voice as he said, “He tells me I am not ready to drive through the streets, Miss Wright, but he will drive us to Green Park while I ride behind in the tiger’s seat. There, he will trust me at the reins until it is time to come back through the streets again.”
“The horses are very well trained and know their business, Miss Wright,” said Mr. Bagshaw. “You will be perfectly safe.”
“You are meant to tell her I have been diligent at my lessons and show great promise,” protested Chris, but he was laughing, and Mr. Bagshaw laughed with him.
Clem allowed herself to be assisted up into the passenger seat. “Hashe been diligent at his lessons, Mr. Bagshaw?” she asked. Chris leapt up behind and Mr. Bagshaw coaxed the horses out into the traffic.
“Yes, I have to admit that he has,” said Mr. Bagshaw. “Both of them.”
Clem twisted in her seat to look at Chris. “Two lessons, Mr. Satterthwaite? How many times have you driven a carriage or other vehicle?”
“Not counting donkey carts,” insisted Mr. Bagshaw.
“Twice,” Chris admitted. “Yesterday evening and this morning.”
