Carola Dunn Read Free Page B

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. Nowhere 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.