‘What is he doing here so early? My lady has not even had her morning chocolate yet.’
Helen almost heard the footman shrug. ‘According to Mr Quinn, his lordship wants to start her training sessions earlier.’ He dropped his voice lower still. ‘Says she’s not progressing fast enough. Too frightened of her own power.’
Helen drew in a sharp breath.
‘That’s not true,’ her maid said stalwartly.
Dear faithful Darby. Yet the comment had stung with some kind of truth.
‘He’s got a cove with him from London, and bid me deliver these bandboxes to you. You’d best wake her.’
Helen sat up, her night plait swinging heavily against her back. A man from London? She had no idea who that might be. The bandboxes, however, were not so mysterious: her gentleman’s garb. No doubt Lord Carlston would have given them to her yesterday if they had not quarrelled.
Wretchedness prickled across her skin. He had not returned to the house after that unfortunate interview, and so had not witnessed both Delia and Darby swearing their official oaths of loyalty under the peevish direction of Lady Margaret, or joined the muted celebration that had followed. No one had commented upon his absence, although Helen had caught Lady Margaret watching the door throughout the evening. Now his lordship had arrived before breakfast to start training and with someone else in tow. A firm message, it would seem, that they were to push on as before with no acknowledgment of that energy that kept flaring between them. He wanted a focused, logical, nonsentimental trainee. Well, he would have exactly that.
‘Darby,’ she called.
‘There, she’s up now,’ her maid whispered. ‘And you’ve delivered your boxes, so off you go.’ ‘Yes, Mistress Chide.’
‘Cheeky monkey,’ Darby said, but Geoffrey was already retreating down the staircase.
Helen heard the door closing and then five measured steps brought Darby to the dressing room doorway, a large rounded silhouette in the gloom.
‘Good morning, my lady.’ She bobbed a curtsey and headed to the window. ‘Geoffrey just delivered some bandboxes for you. From his lordship.’ She gathered two handfuls of the heavy velvet curtains and drew them back. ‘Shall I bring them in, or do you wish to have your chocolate first?’ She folded back the shutters and pressed them home with a soft clunk.
Helen blinked in the sudden morning light. ‘Bring them in, please.’
The long sleeve and bodice of Darby’s dress — a refashioned cast-off from Helen’s wardrobe — caught the sun in a show of chestnut pintucks and pleats. It was her maid’s best gown; she did not often bring it out for everyday wear.
‘Are you by chance going into town with Mr Quinn this morning?’ Helen asked, keeping her tone bland.
Darby, bending to affix the shutter snib, twitched a shoulder. ‘As it happens, my lady, I am. He is teaching me to move expediently through a crowd.’ She lifted her head, cheeks pink. ‘He has also promised to take me for cake and tea after to celebrate my oath. If I have your permission?’
Helen nodded, and received a beaming smile.
‘I’ll get the boxes, my lady.’ She hurried from the room.
Helen flipped her plait over her shoulder and ran her fingers along its thick brown corrugations. The interest between Darby and Quinn was fast becoming fixed, but even with all the goodwill in the world, Helen could see no happy ending for her maid and the big Pacific Islander. They would always be the target of hateful words, and even foul physical missiles, slung at them by small-minded people outraged by a ‘brown savage’ touching a white woman. More to the point, there would be a day, heading towards them at a great rate, when all the training was done and Lord Carlston returned to his real Reclaimer duties with his Terrene at his side. Darby, of course, would stay with her, the two of them expected to stand on their own.
Helen’s fingers stopped their restless runs, the thought of being on her own bringing an instant of breathless immobility. At least that alarming future was still some way off. She also had Delia now, although his lordship had clearly not approved of her as an aide. Helen closed her hand around the end of her braid. It did not matter what he thought; he had said it was her decision.
‘There is a note too,’ Darby said, emerging from the dressing room with two large bandboxes stacked together.
‘Put them here.’ Helen patted the blue silk coverlet.
Darby placed the boxes on the bed and passed over the note.
‘That one first.’ Helen pointed to the box closest to her leg.
Darby lifted the lid and pulled aside the packing paper. They both peered in. A pair of neatly folded pale buckskin breeches lay on top. As suspected, her male clothes. Now she would show his lordship space and purpose.
Darby pulled the breeches out and placed them on the bed. Next came a pair of white silk evening breeches, a pair of braces, three linen shirts with collars attached, ten fine linen cravats, stockings and two waistcoats, one cream, the other striped in shades of burgundy. No metal buttons or hooks on anything of course; metal was a deadly pathway for a Deceiver’s energy.
Helen regarded the wide array of clothing spread out on the bed. A true Reclaimer’s wardrobe. It was also a complete male wardrobe. Was Lord Carlston expecting her to live as a man? In truth, it would probably be more convenient for everyone; it was far easier to move around the world as a man than as a woman. Even more so for a Reclaimer. It seemed femininity was a definite disadvantage in this new dangerous world.
She sat back against the pillows and broke the wax seal on the note from his lordship, spreading the paper. It was as curt as ever. She read it aloud:
We are in the salon and await your appearance in your new clothes.
Yrs,
C
‘Not a man to waste words, is he, my lady?’ Darby remarked.
Neither words nor emotions. Helen folded the note and laid it on the bed. ‘What is in the second box?’
Darby brought out a day jacket of good-quality fir-green broadcloth, followed by a black evening jacket. Finally, packed tightly into the bottom, was a pair of slightly worn black hessian boots, a dull gold tassel hanging from each curved front.
Darby picked up the top cravat from the pile and inspected the starched linen. ‘Mr Quinn has explained the intricacies of dressing a gentleman, my lady, and I have practised tying a number of cravat styles. I think we shall manage.’
Helen threw back the clear side of the bedcovers and swung her legs to the ground. ‘Then let us get to it,’ she said in her best manly manner.
Twenty minutes later in the dressing room, Helen rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the compression of her breasts under the tight band of wrapped calico. It was even more uncomfortable than the long stays she had worn for her Court presentation.
Darby frowned. ‘I have bound you too tight. Shall I ease it?’