Carola Dunn Read Free

disaffected cousin had to admit he made a magnificent entrance.
     The great tailor Weston’s coat fitted him like a glove, as did his dove-grey inexpressibles. His refulgent Hussar boots shone scarcely less than the gold fobs at his waist and the gold brocade waistcoat that a stickler might have considered more suited to a ballroom. In the elaborate folds of his pristine neckcloth glittered a large diamond. His tall, elegant figure moved with a studied grace and the expression on his patrician face was one of haughty disdain. Lip curled, he raised his quizzing glass.
     Awed, the tenants moved together for support. Edward introduced them one by one. Reggie greeted and dismissed each with a gracious nod and a word or two. None ventured to do more than express his utmost respect until at last it came to Tom Miller’s turn.
     “If it please your Grace,” he blurted out, “I’ve a daughter.”
     The duke raised supercilious eyebrows.
     “She’s a good lass and a pretty un, your Grace,” the stout miller stammered, “and she’d like fine to be abigail to her ladyship Lady Elizabeth, your Grace.”
     “Indeed,” said Reggie coldly.
     Edward was ready to intervene before he gave the poor fellow a shattering set-down, or even dismissed him for his impertinence. But Tom, his always ruddy face redder than ever, was determined to do his best for his daughter and he rushed onward.
     “My Martha’s the best seamstress in the county, your Grace. Why, she can turn a scrap o’ muslin into a ball gown fit for a duchess, quick as winking.”
     Reggie’s attention was well and truly caught. “She can, eh? Lady Elizabeth’s going to need a whole new wardrobe for London. I suppose the girl could manage that in a day or two?”
     “Oh yes, your Grace, sure as eggs is eggs, and better nor any London dressmaker,” Tom boasted. “Everyone says so.”
     “Send her up to the house tomorrow noon, my good man, and we shall see what she can do.”
     “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