In early December of 1735, during a blizzard that dropped a foot of snow that never melted, word arrived that guests would come for supper and would be staying not far away. Herbert and Henry went about the house that day with shirttails flapping and shoes untied in open rebellion to the law laid down by Mistress Roberts. The house had been decked for Christmas, but at every corner new candles appeared with stubs ready for lighting. The young ladies were decked and perfumed, and insisted I do the same in another new gown of green watered silk.
A great noise came from below, a calling of names and a near riotous banging of doors combined with the sound of a carriage and six passing over the cobbled carriageway. Betsy clasped her hands to her face and said, “He’s here!”
Serenity made a face. “Only that dreary old lord and his withering wife. Oh, and then, of course, young Master Spencer.”
“Wallace!” Betsy said. “Wallace Spencer is practically betrothed to Serenity!”
“He is not,” Serenity said. “But he does have a very well turned calf.”
“Too bad about the other leg!” Betsy replied. Serenity tossed a pillow in Betsy’s direction and both girls laughed.
I laughed, too, adding, “Betwixt the two of you I daresay he does not stand a chance.” The others had already descended the stairs; we followed, I between the two oldest young ladies of the house.
Lord Spencer was away, but Lady Spencer acknowledged us with a slight nod. She was impressive. Tall. Aloof. I saw fire in her eyes. When Mr. Roberts introduced me to Wallace Spencer, the young man took my hand and bowed over it, discreetly touching his lips to my fingers. My heart leaped. I felt my color rise and could not take my eyes off his countenance when he faced me. His jaw seemed chiseled from marble; indeed, all his features had been sculpted most aristocratically, perfect, yet masculine in every sense. Hair curled at his temples as if it, too, had as wanton a nature as my own. The weave of his coat and trousers I recognized as being of high quality. The fabric was imported from France, I thought immediately, and tailored here. I wished to see it done, making gentlemen’s clothing, for I knew about women’s things, and curiosity cooled my cheeks.
“What? Have I bored you already, Miss Talbot?” Wallace Spencer asked. His voice washed over the room like warm water. “For I saw you flattered then disenchanted in the same moment. Oh, dear. I was hoping to charm all the young ladies in this house.”
At dinner, Wallace Spencer sat next to his mother, opposite me. Thrice I caught him watching me. His eyes were warm. His lips smiled so easily in such a jaunty way, raised on the right side. That was proof to the world, said Mr. Roberts, that he was related to the Prescott and Davis families, old Boston, old grants, old Loyalists. I wrinkled my brow a little. I would let that information brew a while, and try to discover what those families meant to this one before I mused aloud.
Though none mistreated me and the days though short were merry, the house drew in upon itself with the confinement of winter. Wallace’s presence was the pleasantest diversion, and I looked forward to his coming as much, perhaps more, than Serenity did. I kept my feelings hidden, for Serenity spoke much about her understanding that they were intended. Often he strolled with Serenity and me over the snow-packed road, short distances meant to stir the blood a bit before returning to the house for steaming beef broth in cups, or chocolate, or tea and cream. Since I told no one my age, Mistress Roberts decided I was as fully woman as Serenity and therefore must be of the same age. Serenity at seventeen welcomed my company, as it relieved her of having her mother present, and I was more likely a conspirator if he should happen to take her arm or hold her hand. In truth, he held both our hands, for the road was often slippery. When he left us, he kissed both our hands. I could not tell whether he gave Serenity the same tender caress with his fingers that he gave to me. I believed some secret passed between us that day, and my face warmed to a ruddy hue when we entered the steaming house.
Christmas season got under way on the fifteenth of December. We spent the day hanging the house with wreaths and garlands of holly and pine; the fragrance was heavy and sharp. Serenity turned eighteen the following day. Wallace had turned four-and-twenty that summer. He had studied mathematics and read law at Harvard, and yet was a gentleman and had no need of a profession. He did those things, he confessed, to placate a doting grandfather who nevertheless expected Wallace to be able to earn a living, whether he needed to do so or not.