Chapter 1
IN JUNE OF 1794, THE ROSES WERE IN FULL FLOWER and the lawns were of a green lushness that is known only in England. In the county of Sussex stood a small, square, two-story house, a plain house surrounded by a short iron fence. The house once had been part of a greater estate, an outbuilding for a gardener’s or gamekeeper’s family, but the rest of the estate had been subdivided long ago and sold to pay off the Maleson family’s debts. All that was left of this once great family was this small, neglected house, Jacob Maleson, and his daughter Bianca.
Jacob Maleson now sat before the empty fireplace in the parlor on the ground floor—a short, corpulent man, the lower buttons of his vest unbuttoned over the expanse of his large stomach, his coat carelessly tossed over another chair. His plump legs were encased in broadcloth breeches, reaching to just past his knees where they were fastened with brass buckles, his calves were covered with cotton stockings, his feet were bulging from thin leather pumps. A large, sleepy Irish setter leaned against one arm of the old wing chair, and Jacob idly fondled the dog’s ears.
Jacob had grown used to his simple country life. Truthfully, he rather liked having a smaller house, fewer servants, and less responsibility. He remembered the big house of his childhood as a place of wasted space, a place that took up too much of his parents’ time and energy. Now he had his dogs, a good joint of meat for dinner, enough income to keep his stables going, and he was content.
His daughter was not.
Bianca stood before the tall mirror in her second-floor bedroom and smoothed the long muslin dress over her tall, plump body. Every time she looked at herself in the new French fashions, she felt a touch of disgust. The French peasants had revolted against the aristocracy, and now, because those weak Frenchmen could not control their underlings, all the world had to pay. Every country looked at France and worried that the same thing could happen to them. In France, everyone wanted to look as if they were part of the commoners; therefore, satins and silks were practically banned. The new fashions were of muslins, calicos, lawns, and percale.
Bianca studied herself in the mirror. Of course, the new gowns suited her perfectly. She was just worried about other women less fortunately endowed than herself. The gown was cut very low, with a deep scoop across her large breasts, hiding very little of their shape and whiteness. The pale blue India gauze was tied with a wide ribbon of blue satin just under her breasts, the gown falling straight down from the ribbon to the floor where a row of fringe ran along the hem. Her dark blond hair was pulled back from her face and held with a ribbon, and fat sausage curls hung over her bare shoulder. Her face was fashionably round, with pale blue eyes like her dress, light brows and lashes, her little pink mouth forming a perfect rosebud, and when she smiled there was a tiny dimple in her left cheek.
Bianca moved away from the tall mirror to her dressing table. It, like nearly everything else in the room, was decorated with pale pink tulle. She liked pastels around her. She liked anything that was gentle, delicate, and romantic.
There was a large box of chocolates on the dressing table, the top layer almost empty. Peering into the box, she wrinkled her nose prettily. The horrible French war had stopped the manufacture of the best chocolates, and now she had to make do with second-rate English chocolate. She chose one piece of candy, then another. When she was on her fourth piece and licking her dimpled fingers, she saw Nicole Courtalain enter the room.
The inferior chocolates, the thin fabric of the dress, and Nicole’s presence were all a result of the Revolution in France. Bianca chose another chocolate and watched the young Frenchwoman as she moved quietly about the room, putting away the gowns Bianca had strewn across t
he floor. Nicole made Bianca realize how very generous she and all the English were. When the French had been thrown out of their own country, the English had taken them in. Of course, most of the French had supported themselves economically; in fact, they had even introduced a new thing called a restaurant to England. But then there were people like Nicole—no money, no relatives, no occupation. That’s when the English had shown their true generosity. One by one, they’d taken these waifs into their homes.
Bianca had gone to a port on the eastern coast of England and met a shipload of the refugees. She had not been in a good mood. Her father had just informed her that he could no longer afford to pay for her personal maid. There’d been an awful row between the two until Bianca had remembered the émigrés. She had dutifully gone to help the poor, homeless Frenchmen and to see if she could extend her charity to one of them.
When she saw Nicole, she knew she’d found what she wanted. She was small, her black hair hidden under a straw bonnet, her face heart-shaped with enormous brown eyes shaded by short, thick, dark lashes. And in those eyes was a great deal of sadness. She looked as if she didn’t care whether she lived or died. Bianca knew that a woman who looked like that would be very grateful for Bianca’s generosity.
Now, three months later, Bianca almost regretted all that she had given Nicole. It wasn’t that the girl was incompetent; actually, she was almost too competent. But sometimes her graceful, easy movements made Bianca feel almost clumsy.
Bianca looked back at the mirror. What an absurd thought! Her figure was majestic, stately—everyone said so. She gave Nicole a nasty look in the mirror and pulled the ribbon out of her hair.
“I don’t like the way you did my hair this morning,” Bianca said, leaning back in the chair and helping herself to two more pieces of candy.
Silently, Nicole went to the dressing table and took a comb to Bianca’s rather thin hair. “You haven’t yet opened the letter from Mr. Armstrong.” Her voice was quiet, with no accent, except that each word was pronounced carefully.
Bianca gave a little wave of her hand. “I know what he has to say. He wants to know when I’ll be coming to America, when I’ll marry him.”
Nicole combed one of the curls over her finger. “I would think you’d want to set a date. I know you’d like to marry.”
Bianca looked up in the mirror. “How little you know! But, of course, I couldn’t expect a Frenchwoman to understand the pride and sensibilities of the English. Clayton Armstrong is an American! How could I, a descendant of the peers of England, marry an American?”