Carola Dunn Read online

  “Yes, your Grace. Thank you, your Grace.” The miller went off looking pleased with himself.

  Equally pleased with himself, Reggie turned to Edward. “This will save me a pretty penny. You wouldn’t believe what the fashionable London modistes charge.”

  “You shouldn’t believe Tom Miller’s bragging,” said Edward. “He’s famous for his tall tales, and his tongue tends to run away with him.”

  His cousin frowned ominously. “You mean he’s not telling the truth? The girl can’t sew? By gad, he’ll suffer if he’s lied to me.”

  “Martha can sew, most beautifully, I understand. In fact she already makes some of your sisters’ clothes. But I suspect Miller’s vision of a fashionable London wardrobe is two or three round dresses and a ball gown.”

  “Devil take it, I’m not such a credulous slowtop as you think,” said the duke, annoyed. “I daresay it may take her several days to make all Lizzie needs. But if she is as good as he says, I shall save a small fortune I have much better uses for. Tell Lizzie to make up her mind exactly what she wants, will you, coz? I’m going duck hunting.”

  He dashed off up the stairs much faster than Edward, still protesting, could limp after him.

  * * * *

  Martha wanted to skip as she made her way to the great house at midday next day. Though she restrained herself—skipping was beneath the dignity of an abigail-to-be—excitement bubbled within her.

  She touched the lucky four-leaf clover in her pocket, that she had found last summer. She was going to see London, and with her expenses paid so that all her wages could go to her parents. She was going to be living in the same house as the magnificent duke. Pa had told them what a splendid figure he made, dressed up to the nines, tall and handsome and haughty.

  Even Mam had grudgingly agreed it was good of his Grace to give Martha a chance to display her abilities.

  Of course she knew better than to expect a great nobleman like the Duke of Diss to pay his sister’s maid the least notice, but she was bound to catch a glimpse now and then. Dreaming was free, wasn’t it?

  She had no doubt of her ability to create an elegant wardrobe for Lady Elizabeth. The local gentry always sent for Martha Miller and her clever needle when they needed a special gown for the assemblies in Newmarket or Bury St. Edmunds.

  As she passed a poplar windbreak, the tall, narrow trees leafless now, she paused to admire the mansion. With its grey stone towers and turrets, imposing gatehouse and crenellated walls, it reminded her of a woodcut of a king’s palace in a book of faerie stories she had once read to old Mrs. Stewart. A fitting home for the splendid Duke of Diss.

  Walking round to the servants’ entrance in the east wing, Martha turned her mind to the task ahead of her. Silks, satins, and velvets she would be sewing, instead of the winter flannels and worsteds and the summer muslins she was more accustomed to. Rich lace by the ell, fur trimmings for pelisses, gold and silver thread embroidery—the young ladies had shown her pictures in the London magazines. If she did a good job, perhaps his Grace might smile at her?

  Mrs. Girdle, the housekeeper, who was Tad’s auntie, met her with a worried face.

  “I hope you haven’t gone and bit off more than you can chew, Martha.” She led the way up a winding stone staircase to the sewing room, high in one of the towers. “His Grace gets some mighty odd notions into his noddle, there’s no denying, and what with your pa’s getting carried away by his own tongue the way he does....”

  “Why, I’ll just have to do the best I can, ma’am,” said Martha gaily. “If I don’t get to go to London with Lady Elizabeth, well, I’ll be sorry but it won’t be the end of the world, after all.”

  “That’s a sensible lass,” Mrs. Girdle approved, opening a door off a narrow landing. “Here you are, then. His Grace sent up a tray of provisions for you, over there on the little table. Bread and cheese, he ordered, but I told Cook to put in a few lemon jumbles.”

  Martha smiled at her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You have all the needles and pins and thread and such you need, do you?”

  “Oh yes,” Martha said with confidence, “not like some places I sew where they measure every inch of thread you use!”

  “I should hope not, in the duke’s household! I had the fire made up, and there’s plenty of coals and candles. I’ll leave you then, my dear. Lady Elizabeth will come up presently to tell you what she wants.”

  Martha bobbed a curtsy, and the housekeeper left.

  The big octagonal room was Martha’s favourite place to work. Its mullioned windows overlooked all the countryside about. Beyond the gardens stretched the green turf of the park, cropped by cattle, sheep, and fallow deer. Then came farmland, the dark brown of ploughed fields chequered with the green of winter wheat. A twisting ribbon of pollarded willows showed where the stream meandered across the flat fields. To the south, the village was a knot of bare, grey-brown trees and pale gold thatch, with the church tower rising at one end, the mill at the other.

  The room was a bit chilly at this time of year, although the sun shone in through the windows on the south side. Martha went to the fireplace to warm her fingers before she took off her cloak. Then she turned to the big table in the centre of the room.

  On the table lay a bulky bale, wrapped in brown paper and string. It must contain the luxurious materials she was to make up. She was eager to see them.

  She had untied one knot when Lady Elizabeth came in. A tall, pale, plump young lady, she had an unfortunate preference for yellow and green gowns adorned with multiple ruffles and bows. Martha had never quite dared to point out that they made her ladyship look sallow and even plumper.

  Lady Elizabeth was followed by a footman liveried in royal blue and white. Albert was a younger son of Farmer Winslow, over at Grey Dike Farm. Martha had known him all her life. He gave her a quick wink as he set on the table a pile of new issues of La Belle Assemblée, Ackermann’s Repository of the Arts, and the Ladies’ Magazine.

  Dismissing him, her ladyship turned to Martha, who curtsied.

  “As I expect you know, Martha, Cousin Edward has persuaded my brother I must have a Season in London,” said Lady Elizabeth excitedly. “Is it not splendid?”

  “Oh yes, my lady!”

  “I daresay you will be happy to see the great city, too. Reginald says you may be my abigail if you make my gowns well, and I know you will. I assured him you are an excellent seamstress.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Martha said with fervour.

  “I daresay I shall quite like to have someone from home as my personal maid. Doubtless you will soon learn to dress my hair in the latest mode, for you are quite a clever girl. You can read, can you not?”

  “Yes, my lady. Our vicar’s wife taught me.”

  “Excellent. Look here, at these magazines. I have marked the plates of all the dresses I want, and written down notes as to the colours and any changes in design or ornament. Mama is not to have any say in my choice. My brother says her notions are shockingly old-fashioned and provincial.”

  Her Grace did indeed favour more elaborate dress than was the current mode. Though Martha held her tongue rather than agree with criticism of the duchess, she hoped that without her mother’s influence, Lady Elizabeth might opt for more flattering simplicity.

  “My brother says you are not to be disturbed at your work until every single gown is ready, so you must take all the measurements you need now.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Martha helped Lady Elizabeth take off her morning dress of soft, warm merino in a peculiarly sickly shade of yellowish brown. Her ladyship shivered in her shift while Martha busied herself with her measuring tape, writing down figures as tiny and neat as her stitches.

  Lady Elizabeth dressed and departed, and Martha returned to the bale on the table. Untying the last knot, she opened the paper to reveal a vast quantity—ells and ells—of plain white muslin.

  Puzzled, she glanced around the room, then under the table. Nowher
e did she see any parcels that might contain other fabrics. The small cupboard held nothing but the usual needles, pins, scissors, and thread. The old cedar chest against the wall contained as always scraps of ribbon and lace, odd buttons and beads, spangles, faded silk flowers, bits and pieces of cloth that might come in handy some day.

  No doubt the duke’s footmen would shortly bring up all she needed. Closing the lid of the chest, she turned.

  In the doorway stood his Grace himself, lounging against the doorpost and regarding her with a curious smugness. He was as handsome as her brief glimpse had suggested, tall and dark, his shooting jacket and buckskins molded to his powerful figure. His boots gleamed so, Martha could hardly believe they were made of leather.

  With difficulty tearing her gaze from his splendour, Martha curtsied low.

  “Miller claims you can make a ball gown from a scrap of muslin in the wink of an eye,” he drawled. “M’cousin swears you can’t.”

  “Lord Tarnholm, your Grace?” Martha ventured, wondering why the baron should speak ill of her. Though she had never had cause to exchange a word with him, she had often seen him riding or driving through the village, and sometimes in this very house, when she came here to sew. Surely he must know his aunt and his cousins were satisfied with her needlework.

  “Lord Tarnholm,” the duke confirmed. “He vows your father exaggerates. Well, I’m a reasonable man. I shall make allowances.”

  “Thank you, your Grace.” Knowing her father, Martha bit her lip, beginning to worry. What exactly had Pa promised on her behalf?

  “Not at all.” The duke waved a gracious hand. “You can start with the simple stuff. Make up a couple of dozen morning gowns and walking dresses and suchlike by tomorrow morning and I’ll pay you well—by country standards, that is,” he added quickly.

  “T-two dozen, Your Grace?” she faltered, bewildered. “By tomorrow?”

  Twenty-four gowns in twenty-four hours! He might as well ask her to spin straw into gold. What could anyone possibly want with twenty-four gowns? Dazzled by his magnificence, she must have misunderstood.

  “That’s right. We shall soon find out whether Tom Miller’s lied to me. If so, I’ll turn him and his brats out of the mill to beg in the streets.”

  Horrified, Martha steeled herself to protest, but already the duke was turning away, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him.

  “Don’t worry,” he said over his shoulder, “I shan’t let anyone interrupt your work. I even thought to have your supper brought up in advance. Yes, there it is.” He gestured at the small table on which stood an earthen jug and a tray covered with a white napkin.

  The door thudded to. Martha heard the great iron key turning in the lock.

  Martha’s feet carried her unwillingly to the southern window. There, across gardens and park and fields, beyond the church tower and the thatched roofs of the village, the mill’s sails turned and turned in a brisk breeze from the North Sea. There Pa, loud-voiced and jolly, presided over the great round, rough stones that ground to flour the corn from the rich arable soil of the Norfolk plain. The biggest millstones in the county, he was wont to boast, and the finest flour.

  What would he do, what would Mam do, and the little ones, without the mill that was their home and their livelihood? Tears rose to Martha’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

  It was up to her. Perhaps if she worked all night she might manage three or four dresses, even half a dozen, if she didn’t take her usual pains to make every stitch straight and small. Tapes instead of buttons, single seams for double, even basting in place of proper stitches where it would not show—considering the possibilities, Martha moved towards the table.

  His Grace claimed to be a reasonable man. Surely he would be satisfied with three or four completed gowns!

  She stopped with a shock. White muslin. How could she have forgotten all she had to work with was plain white muslin? And cheap stuff at that, she realized, fingering it.

  Her heart sinking again, she skimmed through the fashion magazines. As she expected, Lady Elizabeth wanted crêpe and sarcenet and lutestring, with lace dripping from the sleeves, silk roses set on, rouleaux of satin, and even seed-pearl embroidery. Even the simplest morning gowns were of fine jaconet, mull, or sprig muslin.

  Beside each illustration, her ladyship had written firmly the colour she desired, primrose, lemon or canary yellow, lime, spring or pomona green.

  Martha sank down on a stool and wept.

  Chapter III

  “Miss Miller, don’t cry,” came an urgent voice from the direction of the door. “Pray don’t!”

  The sight that met Martha’s startled stare made her jump to her feet, knocking over the stool. She retreated backwards, her hand to her mouth.

  From the keyhole—but the keyhole was far too small!— protruded a red-haired head. Even as she watched, eyes round with astonishment, a neck and then blue-coated shoulders followed Lord Tarnholm’s head into the room.

  So he really was a changeling!

  He wriggled his shoulders and his arms popped free. Changeling or no, he looked most uncomfortable and Martha instinctively started forward to help. How, she had not the least notion.

  “I’m afraid I seem to be stuck,” he said apologetically. “I’m only half faerie, you see.”

  Dismay at his plight conquered her alarm. “Can you go back, my lord?”

  “I might as well. I’m no earthly use to you like this.” With an expression of intense concentration on his homely face, he began to move backwards, then came to a halt. “Dash it, I really am stuck.”

  “How...how did your lordship do it?”

  “How did I get this far? I just wished myself through. To tell the truth, I didn’t expect it to work even this well,” Lord Tarnholm confessed wryly. “My mother tried to teach me faerie magic when I was a child, but something always went wrong so I gave up.”

  “It’s no good giving up now, my lord. You cannot stay there for ever. Could you try a different spell for your...your lower half?” Blushing, she persisted. “A different sort of magic, or wish, or whatever it is?”

  “I could turn half of myself temporarily into smoke, I daresay. The trouble is, I cannot be sure which half would stay solid.”

  “Oh dear!”

  “I suppose I must try it. If I end up back outside the room, I shall just have to make another attempt to persuade Reggie to leave off this addlepated nonsense.”

  Martha watched with bated breath. She was not at all sure that she wanted Lord Tarnholm, solid or not, locked in the tower room with her, for all he was well thought of in Willow Cross and environs.

  Still, she decided, nothing could possibly be worse than it already was.

  Slowly the baron drifted away from the door. From the waist down he had become a cloud of purplish mist. Or rather, from the waist up, for being lighter the mist rose towards the ceiling. Stuck in midair now, his lordship dangled head down, arms flailing.

  “Don’t turn back into...into you yet,” Martha warned him. “You will land on your head and hurt yourself.” Without thinking, she put one hand between his shoulderblades, the other on his chest, and tiptilted him right side up.

  He promptly solidified. His feet thumped to the floor and he caught her arm to steady himself as he stumbled. Hot with embarrassment, Martha found herself nose to nose with Lord Tarnholm.

  His eyes were silver, and slightly slanted, she noticed as she backed away. And he appeared to be as embarrassed as she felt, his thin cheeks stained with scarlet.

  He looked away. “I’m sorry,” he said despairingly, limping towards the table, his crooked shoulders obvious now that he was on his feet. “I thought I might be able to help you.”

  “To help me? With spells?” She clasped her hands tight together. “Will you really?”

  “You have already seen what a mull I make of it when I try to do magic.”

  “I cannot see how you can possibly make things worse.” Her woes returned to the forefront o
f her mind and her lips trembled. “Please help me. Please! I’ll give you...” But what had she that a rich lord might want? “I’ll give you my lucky four-leafed clover.”

  Fumbling in her pocket, she took out the tiny leather case Will Cobbler had made for her precious talisman, and laid it in his outstretched palm. His hand was long-fingered, strong yet smooth and slender, quite unlike the square, red, calloused hands of the village lads.

  As she withdrew her own hand, she felt a strange sensation, as if invisible threads as fine as spider’s silk connected her fingertips to his. She brushed her fingers on her gown and the feeling went away.

  “The ideal gift.” Lord Tarnholm’s smile made her wonder for a moment why she had thought him plain. He opened the little case and regarded the brownish green, carefully pressed leaf with due gravity before putting it away in his inside coat pocket. “I shall certainly need luck as well as magic for this business. Let us get to work.”

  “What do we do, my lord?”

  “For a start, I am not here as your lord, and to call me so will inhibit the magic. I have a faerie name,”—his face twisted in sudden misery—”but I do not care for it. You had best call me Edward.”

  “Yes, my...Edward.” Martha’s curiosity was aroused. What was his faerie name and why did he dislike it so? She didn’t know what to make of him, but he was her only hope to save her family.

  “What do we do?” she asked again. “How shall we set about it?”

  “I haven’t much more notion than you do,” he admitted. “The one thing I’m quite certain of is that I cannot make something out of nothing. Shall we unroll some of that muslin? Maybe it will give me an idea as to what to do next.”

  Lord Tarnholm was stronger than he looked, for he lifted the heavy bale with ease. Martha spread several yards of the white material across the table. He contemplated it for half a minute, then shook his head.

  “I don’t know enough about dressmaking. In fact, I know nothing about dressmaking,” he admitted. “I’m afraid you will have to make up a gown to start with, and I shall watch you and try to learn.”