Chapter Twelve

Morvoren

Ysella, bubbling with girlish excitement, led Morvoren across the imposing hall and back to the stairs. "This way," she said, tugging her hand. "We'll go to my room and find you a gown. I expect my brother has given you the blue room because it's our finest guest accommodation. But my own is nearly as beautiful, as you'll see. He allowed me to choose the colors and decorations myself as a present for my birthday." She swelled with pride. "Now that I'm eighteen."

At the top of the stairs, an oak floored landing festooned with rugs stretched away in both directions. Down one side ran a row of impressively large doors and down the other, long windows with wooden shutters folded back to either side. A fleeting glimpse of formal gardens showed through them, of hedges and gravel pathways and flowerbeds full of roses. Oblivious to her new friend's curiosity, Ysella pushed open the second door and pulled Morvoren in after her.

A four-poster bed dominated her bedroom. Was there likely to be one in the blue room? Morvoren hoped so. She'd wanted to sleep in a four-poster ever since she'd seen one at Hampton Court as a child. She surveyed the rest of the room. Ysella's choice of decorations was vivid, with deep pink walls, curling gold-leafed plasterwork, and a lot of antique furniture.

"Do sit down," Ysella said, practically pushing Morvoren onto a chaise longue by the window. "And take off your bonnet so I can see how pretty your hair is."

Feeling more than a bit bulldozed by all this enthusiasm, Morvoren undid the ribbons of her bonnet and took it off. That was better. She tugged off her gloves as well and stowed them inside the bonnet.

"Your hair is beautiful," Ysella enthused. "So very blonde and so fashionable. How lucky you are. Mine is just a boring brown."

Little did she know that Morvoren's had been highlighted just the week before her holiday so was looking at its best, even though in dire need of a wash. Loveday had confined it in a low bun, but after twenty-four hours of traveling, that had started to come loose, and the breeze had fluffed her hair out around her face.

Ysella's own hair was not the boring brown she'd claimed but a rich chestnut, a few shades lighter than her brother's. "Nonsense," Morvoren said. "You have the most gorgeous curls. Mine tends to frizziness if I'm not careful. I'd love to have hair like yours." Ysella's hair had been piled up on her head and bound with a gold silk scarf, leaving small curls clustering about her forehead and ears. Very Jane Austen.

Ysella patted her hair and beamed but without a trace of vanity. "My abigail, Martha, is very good with hair and needs only to see a style to be able to reproduce it for me. When I go to London for my debut next year, I shall be taking her with me. I can ask her to show your maid how to do your hair if you like."

Her debut? Of course, young ladies in the past had to "come out" and be presented in society when they reached marriageable age, in order to catch themselves a suitable husband. How very different this world was from Morvoren's own, where you just met boys in school or at university or at the pub and fell into relationships with them.

Morvoren smiled and nodded to the offer. "Thank you."

"Now," Ysella said, already moving on and forgetting about hairstyles. "We shall need you out of this dress and all those petticoats. How Mother ever wore those things I do not know. I'll call Martha and she can help us." She went to the door where a tasseled rope hung and gave it a tug. Nothing happened, but presumably somewhere within the house Martha had heard her summons.

Within two minutes, Martha arrived with Loveday in tow. The latter had put on a clean apron over her traveling dress and swapped her straw bonnet for a lacy mob cap. Her eyes were round with wonder and her cheeks glowed even more rosily than normal.

"Now, Martha," Ysella declared, eyes sparkling. "We have a job to do here, and it is to turn Miss Lucas into a fashionable young lady." She was very much entering into the spirit of Pygmalion. "To start with, we need these dreadful old clothes off her, and I think the blue sprigged muslin will set off her eyes to perfection." She encompassed Loveday with her zeal. "And you, Loveday, will learn from Martha how to dress your mistress's hair so it cuts the mustard." She gave an infectious giggle. "This is going to be so much fun."

Feeling as though Ysella thought her a giant doll to dress up, Morvoren let them divest her of her many layers with great relief. Surely, beneath Ysella's floaty, high-waisted muslin gown there couldn't be as much upholstering as her mother's old dress had required?

Once she was down to those gappy knickers, Morvoren's three dressers decided that what she needed after so long on the dusty road up from Cornwall must be a bath. This she couldn't argue with, nor did she want to, but what she hadn't counted on was the fact that they wanted to be present while she took it.

Two footmen carried a large metal bath into the bedroom, hot water arrived, in buckets, and at last Martha declared the bath ready.

The footmen had set up a fancy painted wooden screen around the bathtub and, throwing caution and modesty to the wind, Morvoren stripped naked and got in. What utter bliss the hot water was.

Some time later, Morvoren emerged, glowing and clean, and a delighted Ysella supervised her dressing from the ground up.

"I said this would be fun, didn't I? And I was right." she declared gleefully as Martha fetched out various different garments and laid them out for inspection while Loveday looked on, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

To Morvoren's surprise, more stays were involved, but this time shorter, far gentler, and less intrusive ones, akin to a modern bustier. She'd have preferred to do without them altogether, but, as words of protest would have been ignored, she stayed silent. If she was stuck here in 1811 for a while, then she'd have to conform, at least until she found her feet. And besides which, even the most modest of busts needed control. She didn't want to go bouncing out of a low-cut dress like Ysella's at an inopportune moment.

"Now for the blue sprigged muslin," Ysella declared, as Martha fetched it from an enormous wardrobe.

It was indeed a lovely dress with a high waist and delicate puff sleeves. Morvoren smiled in pleasure as she looked down at herself in it. "I have to admit this is a lot more comfortable than your mother's old dress. I can almost forget I have stays on."

"Of course you can," Ysella rejoined. "I never notice mine at all. Now for some perfume, just here behind your ears and a dab on each wrist I think. Mama says you should apply it on, what was it, pulse points. I've no idea why but she's always correct."

Martha, with an air of smug superiority, showed Loveday how to pile Morvoren's hair up and secure it in position with a blue silk scarf. Ysella, who appeared unable to keep her hands to herself, tweaked a few curls about her forehead, and Morvoren's new look was complete.

"There," Ysella declared with satisfaction, standing back to admire her work. "That's so much better. I have plenty of clothes I can lend you while you're here with us, and we can visit my dressmaker and have her take your measurements for more gowns. Although you seem to fit in my clothes perfectly well, and I have plenty, so she might not need to. Come and admire yourself in my cheval glass."

The cheval glass turned out to be a mirror set in a wooden frame on some kind of swivel. Unlike a modern mirror, the reflected image was a little watery and darker than Morvoren was used to. However, it showed her a girl from the pages of Sense and Sensibility or Pride and Prejudice, with her hair as prettily styled as any Jane Austen heroine. She had truly been transformed, and if she dared admit it, felt quite pleased with the result.

"But what about her shoes?" Martha asked, indicating Morvoren's now stockinged feet with a curl of her upper lip. "She can't go putting those big ugly things back on. It'll spoil the picture she makes." Wrinkling her nose, she held up the trainers.

Loveday, who'd been a little overawed throughout the process of transformation, joined in with enthusiasm. "Her feet was too big for Miss Elestren's old shoes an' boots, so we had to let her keep those things on."

Morvoren eyed her trainers, now almost the sole reminder of her own world. She didn't want to lose them. "They're for running. And they may look odd to you, but I can assure you that they're very comfortable."

Martha gave one of them a tentative sniff. "Bit smelly. I haven't ever seen any lady wearing shoes for running." She paused. "Fact is, I ain't never seen a lady running."

Ysella laughed. "Although I daresay a few could do with being able to." She extended her own daintily clad foot and put it beside one of the trainers. "I wonder if my shoes might fit dear Miss Lucas. My feet are larger than Mother's. If not, I fear we'll have to raid the wardrobe of one of the maids. I'm sure at least one of them has big feet—they certainly sound like they do first thing in the morning when I'm still in bed and they're going about their chores." She turned to Martha. "The soft kid ones I think, as they're most likely to stretch and not rub Miss Lucas's toes."

As Martha hurried to find a spare pair of Ysella's shoes, Morvoren turned to her hostess, determined to set something straight. "I wish you would call me Morvoren. Miss Lucas makes me feel like an old lady of fifty."

Ysella's smile widened. "Why of course. And you shall call me Ysella, although Kit calls me Yzzie when he's not being quite as starchy as he's been today."

Martha brought the shoes, which to Morvoren's relief were only a tiny bit tight. She put them on and stood up, feeling every inch the Regency lady.

She was just admiring her newly upthrust breasts, when a sudden thought struck her. Never having mixed with the nobility before, she had no idea what she should call any of them. She needed to know before she put her foot in it. "Would you mind telling me how I should address your mother?"

Ysella frowned. "Why, Lady Ormonde will do nicely. That is what my dear friend Caroline Fairfield calls Mama when she visits." She giggled. "I daresay you will get to meet Caroline. I'm sure Mama will be inviting her to Ormonde as she still harbors the hope of making a match between her and Kit. Caroline's mama is great friends with my mama, and they've had a fancy to pair Kit and Caro off since Caro was in the cradle."

"Goodness," was all Morvoren could find to say in response to that gush of information. So, Kit was as good as engaged in his mother's eyes. No wonder she'd seemed unhappy when he'd turned up with a strange young lady in tow.

"And now," Ysella said, "we shall descend to the library again and from there go in to breakfast. It must be at least ten o'clock and high time for something to eat. I, for one, am famished."

She took hold of Morvoren's hand and propelled her out onto the corridor.

*

Kit

The door ofthe library opened and Ysella came in, hand in hand with someone Kit scarcely recognized, so much of a change had been wrought upon her appearance. Her fluffy hair had been teased into golden curls and arranged on top of her head, supported in place by just the sort of silk bandeau his sister liked to wear. And gone was the outmoded dress of yesteryear to be replaced by the most becoming blue sprigged muslin gown, and elegant calf-skin slippers instead of those infernally ugly shoes.

And yet, something still marked her as different. Perhaps in the way she wore her new clothes and hairstyle, as though she were at a masque and this a costume only, and she a player. In fact, now he came to think about it, Miss Lucas had about her the air of someone totally out of place, as though she didn't fit into her surroundings at all, as though, perhaps, she wasn't even meant to be here.

Kit made a smart bow. "Miss Lucas, you look more charming than ever."

Miss Lucas opened her mouth to speak, but Ysella interrupted. "Oh Kit, do cease to call my dear Morvoren Miss Lucas. She has asked me to use her Christian name and so should you." She twinkled up at him with her usual effervescence. "Indeed, she tells me she has at least twice asked you to do so."

Kit frowned at his sister, wise to her ways. "It would not have been seemly for me to have appeared too familiar with Miss Lucas by using her Christian name whilst we were traveling," he said, aware that beside his open-natured sister he sounded pompous and stilted as soon as he opened his mouth but unable to stop himself. "However, if Miss Lucas still wishes it, I shall call her Morvoren while we are here at Ormonde."

Morvoren's slightly worried expression softened into a slight smile. "I would like that, especially as you've already told me I should call you Kit."

He glanced at his mother, determined that she should accept her visitor—his visitor. "And Mother, I am sure you would like to call Miss Lucas Morvoren as well, wouldn't you?"

His mother, who had resumed her seat by the fireplace after their altercation, rose to her feet, her sewing gripped rather too tightly in her slender hands, her dark eyes veiled so he couldn't tell what she was thinking. "I feel it a trifle impolite to assume to be on first name terms on so short an acquaintance," she said.

How bloody irritating women could be, and how high his mother had climbed upon her horse since she'd been a farmer's, and a smuggler's, daughter living in a small farmhouse in Cornwall. The urge to take her by the shoulders and give her a shake was almost overwhelming.

Ysella, apparently immune to the hostility emanating from their mother, laughed, a happy, tinkling sound. "But Mama, Morvoren is to be my friend, and calling her Miss Lucas all the time will sound as if we are talking about a casual acquaintance and not someone who is staying with us in our own home. I insist that we all call her Morvoren. It is such a pretty name."

Kit would have burst out laughing at his mother's expression had he not been in full control of himself. Ysella, as usual, had his mother stumped, the chit.

Lady Ormonde, superbly conscious of her own role in his house, made a slight inclination of her head. "Very well," she conceded. "Morvoren it is." A slight smile lit her face, but not a totally convincing one. "It will serve to remind me of my childhood at Nanpean."

That would have to do. What a woman she was. However, thank goodness for Ysella, who could always wind their mother around her little finger, and indeed had also been able to do that with their father, when he'd been alive.

When she went up to London for her season next spring, she was going to be a handful with her rather too vivacious ways and her innocent view that everyone had the same honest outlook on life as she did.

Morvoren lowered herself into a rather wobbly curtsey to his mother. "I shall be honored if you will call me Morvoren, Lady Ormonde."