Turning toward an open window, Elisabeth listened but now only heard the slur of rain. “Mister Roth promised he’d come. ’Tis all that matters. He didn’t say when.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”
“April,” Elisabeth admitted reluctantly, wondering why Isabeau even asked. Her maid well knew, being by her side night and day. Isabeau’s pinched expression was a reminder that Miles was not a favorite, no matter his standing in Williamsburg. Elisabeth dug for another excuse. “He’s been busy getting Roth Hall ready for us, his letters said.”
She felt a twinge at her own words, for his letters had been but two over six months. He sent unnecessary, extravagant gifts instead. Gold earrings in the shape of horseshoes. A bottle-green riding dress. Pineapples, lemons, and limes from his estate’s orangery. A London-built carriage. So many presents she soon lost track of them. And not a one had swayed Isabeau’s low opinion of him.
Despite his generosity, Elisabeth felt a sense of foreboding for the future. She did not want his gifts. She wanted his presence. If he was like her oft-absent father . . . ’Twas difficult to see clear to what she really hoped for. A happy home. A whole family.
“Your coiffure is magnifique, no?” The words were uttered with satisfaction as Isabeau produced a hand mirror for her to better see the lovely twisting of curls falling to her shoulders, the wig dusted a costly powdered pink. Twin ostrich feathers, dyed a deeper rose, plumed near her right ear.
“I don’t know.” Reaching up, Elisabeth slid free the pins holding the wig in place, displacing the artfully arranged feathers. “Powder is going out of fashion like patch boxes. Tonight I will move forward with fashion.”
Her maid’s brows arched, but she took the wig and put it on a near stand, where it looked forlorn and deflated. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, Isabeau smoothed a silvered strand of her own charcoal hair into place beneath her cap. At middle age, she was still an attractive woman, as dark as Elisabeth was fair.
“We must make haste, no? But first . . .” Isabeau retrieved the ostrich feathers and refastened them in Elisabeth’s hair while her mistress glanced again at the watch lying faceup on her dressing table.
Late.
Miles was nothing if not perpetually late, while she happened to be an on-time sort of person. Fighting frustration, she set down the hand mirror. “I wonder what Mama is doing tonight.”
Isabeau looked up, a telling sympathy in her eyes. “Your mère will rejoin you when all this talk of tea and taxes blows over, no?”
Elisabeth had no answer. Mama had sailed to England—Bath—months ago. All this talk of tea and taxes had no end.
A soft knock sounded on the door, followed by another maid’s muffled voice. “A gentleman to see you, m’lady, in the drawing room.”
A gentleman? Not her intended? She smiled wryly. Likely the servants didn’t remember Miles.
She went hot, then cold. Miles’s visits were so few and far between, he seemed a stranger each time she saw him. Because of it they spent the better part of an hour becoming reacquainted at each meeting. Tonight would be no different. Perhaps they’d recover the time lost to them in the coach.
Isabeau steered her to the stool of her dressing table. With deft hands, she clasped a strand of pearls about Elisabeth’s neck. The routine was reassuring. Familiar. Selecting a glass bottle, Elisabeth uncapped it, overwhelmed by the scent of the latest cologne from London. Rose geranium. Again Elisabeth peered at her reflection in the looking glass with a sense of growing unease.
Everything seemed new tonight. Her scent. Her shoes. Her stays. Her gown. She’d never worn such a gown, nor felt so exposed. Despite the creamy lace spilling in profusion about her bare shoulders, the décolletage was decidedly daring. Made of oyster-pink silk, the gown shimmered and called out her every curve. The mantua maker had outdone herself this time. Fit for Queen Charlotte, it was.
Moving to the door, she grasped about for a glimmer of anticipation. “I’d best not keep company waiting.”
At this, Isabeau rolled her eyes. “I should like to hear Mister Roth say such!”
Isabeau followed her out, and they passed down a dimly lit hall to a landing graced with an oriole window and upholstered seat. The velvety blackness beyond the shining glass was splashed with rain, not pierced with stars, and the warm air was soaked. This was her prayer place. Isabeau paused for a moment as Elisabeth bent her head briefly before going further.
Then down, down, down the circular steps they went, Isabeau pulling at a stray thread or straightening a fold in the polonaise skirt before reaching the open door of the sitting room, its gaudy gold and scarlet overpowering and oppressive even by candlelight. The colors reminded Elisabeth of red-coated British soldiers. She stepped inside as Isabeau retreated. Her eyes shot to the marble hearth where she expected Miles Roth to be.
“Lady Elisabeth.”
She swung round, her skirts sashaying, her head spinning as well. Mercy, her stays were tight. She’d eaten little at tea.
Behind her stood a man, the shadows hiding his features. She put out a hand to steady herself, missing the needed chair back by a good two inches and finding a coat sleeve instead. The gentleman looked down at her and she looked up, finding his dark head just shy of the wispy clouds skittering in blue oils across the ceiling. Whoever he was, he wasn’t Miles. Miles was but two inches taller than she.
“Mister . . .”
“Rynallt. Noble Rynallt of Ty Mawr.”
What? A recollection returned to her in a rush. Noble Rynallt was a distant cousin of Miles. So distant she had no further inkling of their tie. Quickly she calculated what little she knew of him. Welsh to the bone. Master of a large James River estate. Recently bereft of a sister. A lawyer turned burgess. The Rynallts were known for their horses, were they not? Horse racing? The finest horseflesh in Virginia, if not all the colonies.
She was certain of only one thing.
Noble Rynallt was here because Miles was not.
Surprise mellowed to resignation. She gave a small curtsy. “Mister Rynallt, what an unexpected pleasure.”
“Mayhap more surprise.”
She hesitated. He was honest, at least. “Is Mister Roth . . .”
“Delayed.” He managed to look bemused. And apologetic.
She tried not to stare as rich impressions crowded her senses. A great deal of muscle and broadcloth and sandalwood. The cut of his suit was exceptionally fine, dark but for the deep blue waistcoat embroidered with the bare minimum of silver thread, a creamy stock about his neck. The color of his eyes eluded her, the remainder of his features failing to take root as she dwelt on the word delayed.
Dismayed, she anchored herself to the chair at last.
“He asked me to act as your escort till he arrives.” He struck a conciliatory tone. “If you’ll have me.”
He had the grace to sound a bit embarrassed, as well he should. This was, after all, her betrothal ball given by Lord Dunmore at the Governor’s Palace, with the cream of all Williamsburg in attendance. And she was coming not with her intended but with a . . . stranger.
Nay, worse. Far worse.
Yet good breeding wouldn’t allow a breach of manners. She forced a small smile. “I thank you for the kindness. Will my intended’s delay be long?”