Pantalettes in fashion plates

 

And this one a lady's seaside costume of, IIRC 1815 which I used for Amelia in the William Price books as her shipboard wear 

Generally speaking, the older the girl, the longer the skirt over the pantalettes 

Marquis's Memory now live

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FK2SLMMM
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FK2SLMMM

 

 

My first weather book is available

 this one is a serious academic study of the weather in Britain 1811 to 1815, first of a series I hope to publish.
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0FDJ1NFYP
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FDJ1NFYP

The Marquis's memory 1

 

Chapter 1

 

Geoffrey Calver was in what his nanny once used to call ‘one of Mr. Jeffy’s little paddies’ and his valet called ‘one of his lordship’s incidents’ and anyone who admitted to the truth, including Geoffrey, was a flaming temper.

Geoffrey knew he had black rages, and should work harder to control them, but he would not, and could not, put up with his mother’s blithe declaration that she had arranged a marriage for him, and to someone as insipid as Amabel Brinkley at that.

He had wondered why the girl and her parents had come to breakfast, and was greeted by his mother dispensing the news as she poured tea.

“It ain’t legally binding; I haven’t asked the silly wench, and I don’t intend to,” said Geoffrey.

“Now, then, Jeffy, I’ve given Amabel a ring for you, and the news will be in the paper tomorrow,” said the dowager marchioness, buttering toast. “If you won’t make a push to become engaged to a suitable young lady and secure the succession, Mama must do it for you.”

“I repudiate your choice, and I will not go through with it,” declared Geoffrey. “You, Amelia, Asmodea, whatever your name is, give me that ring.”

Amabel tremblingly pulled off the ring and gave it to him.

“Oh, thank you!” she declared in dying tones.

“You can withdraw the notice. I did not make it, it was not in my hand, and if the wench’s parents attempt to sue for breach of promise, I will bring a counter-suit of fraud. Do I make myself clear, Brinkley?” said Geoffrey.

“Of… of course, my lord,” said Brinkley, who had been manipulated by his wife rather against his own, and his daughter’s wishes.

And Geoffrey slammed out of the room to go for a drive to calm himself down.

He could not have said, consciously, which way he took, but he was just coming out of the red fog of rage, when he perceived that he was on a narrow road, in which a hog was sunbathing.

How he missed the hog he could never say, but the curricle’s wheel caught the ditch and Geoffrey went flying.

 

 

Geoffrey came to his senses to the sound of female conversation.

“He is a very decorative young man, someone must surely know who he is,” said one. “I suppose he was driving so recklessly because he was rejected in love; there was a most outrageous ring in his pocket, a garnet and what I suppose might be diamonds.”

“I thought it was a ruby, my dear,” said the other voice.

“Oh, Aunt Effy! Who has rubies that size?” laughed the first voice. “It will be a garnet, depend on it, for it is already quite vulgar, and with a ruby, would be even more so.”

Vulgar! Yes, that was it, and unfortunately, that also described his mother. Geoffrey groaned.

“He is coming to! With luck he will be able to tell us who he is so we may write a letter to whoever he belongs to, to tell them that he is alive, and well enough bar a broken arm and a bump on the head.”

“Unless he has a severe concussion, and has lost his memory,” said the one called Effie. Euphemia, presumably.

It would be very nice to disappear for a few days, and losing his memory would be a good excuse. He groaned again.

“Where am I?” he asked. “For that matter, who am I?”

“Oh, dear,” said the younger voice. “I was afraid of that.”

“How much do you remember?” asked Effie.

“There was a hog in the road,” said Geoffrey.

“That dratted sow!” said Effie. “She can get her nose under the bar and unlock her sty and she will sunbathe in the road! Pesky animal, but she produces no fewer than a dozen piglings a year, which is very helpful.”

“It is?” said Geoffrey, bewildered.

“It is,” said Effie. “Upwards of twelve bob each, once weaned, or three guineas at slaughter weight of hogs, and  eight or ten guineas for a farrowing sow, split with our neighbour with a hog.”

“You… you’re farmers?” Geoffrey was nonplussed.

“Not really; but a parson’s sister and daughter don’t get far without a little farming on the side,” said Effie.

“You are ladies, then.”

“Well, yes, but not of the sort that you’re used to, with soft hands like yours,” said Effie. “Alethea is educated, of course, her papa saw to that, and I was the youngest sister so I had to keep house for him when her Mama died, but it’s not a life of idle luxury.”

“I can pay for my keep, whilst I am convalescing….”

“Certainly not; your fall was occasioned by our sow.  But don’t expect many courses and fine brandy,” said Effie.

“I don’t know if I was used to such or not,” lied Geoffrey.  He covertly observed the two women.  Effie was no older than he was, perhaps eight-and-twenty, with curly brown hair under a lace cap; her niece, Alethea, was some ten years, maybe twelve years, younger, and was something of a beauty, with wide grey eyes, and a golden tone to the curling brown hair.

Not that Effie was not attractive, but she looked… careworn. Her own grey eyes looked as if they ought to laugh, but were too busy.

“Well, a day or two resting might well bring your memory back,” said Effie. “Your horses are in our barn, and your curricle waiting to have its wheel mended; and I should offer to pay to do so, but I cannot find the cash at the moment. I am sorry.”

Geoffrey waved a hand.

“I don’t ask it of you; have the wheelwright in, I’ve a roll of soft with me.”

“Yes, it is beside you on the commode, with your watch, and a singular ring. We had deduced that you had been disappointed in love.”

Geoffrey sat up, not without a wince, and blushed to find himself in a rather old-fashioned night-rail.

“Yes, I undressed you,” said Effie. “It had to be done, to check for other injuries. You have bruised ribs but not broken, and a broken arm, which I have set and tied well. You have a sling if you need to rest it, or you can lay it across your lap.”

“Thank you,” said Geoffrey. “The ring; it does not speak to me of sentimental value. I have no more feeling for it than if I were taking it to be cleaned… or something similar.”

“The watch was a gift to Geoffrey. Do you think that is you?” asked Effie.

“Yes, from my father, for good results at school,” said Geoffrey. “Well! Plainly I can recall something.”

“Perhaps you are close to your father,” said Effie.

“Was. He is dead,” said Geoffrey. “I… my head hurts. I think I would like to sleep.”

“By all means,” said Effie. “Come, Alethea.”

“Goodness!” he heard the girl’s voice on the stair. “Do you suppose we can keep him if he doesn’t know who he is? Having a man about the place would be very useful.”

“It would, my love, but it would occasion talk, for he is also altogether far too decorative not to make chins wag about one or other of us setting our caps at him.”

There was a giggle.

“He could do a lot worse than marry you, Effie; he’s pretty old.”

“None of that, wench!” said Effie. “Old, indeed! He’s the right side of thirty, I wager, though such sneering lines as he has when he thinks of himself! A deeply unhappy man, in my opinion.”

Geoffrey pulled a rueful face in the quiet solitude of his bedroom. Deeply unhappy, indeed. Hardly surprising. His mother interfered in all aspects of his life; and carped about him marrying for the succession, but made every effort to choke off, scare away, or downright insult every girl he had so far considered in any wise interesting, insulting him in his own ability to chose a bride, by deciding that none of them were good enough. What she meant by that, was, tractable and easily bullied by her, of families she considered suitable, and all of them conventional and dead bores. Geoffrey wanted a woman with conversation, and he really did not care if she could produce a recognisable version of ‘Annie Laurie’ on pianoforte, harp, harp-lute, or tinwhistle. Actually, he might find a girl who played a tinwhistle more interesting, but only because it was unconventional.

His arm hurt damnably, though, and he was tired to the bone.

He let himself drift off to sleep.

 

 

When Geoffrey awoke again, the light had changed, and it appeared to be getting dark. He had slept for hours! But he could not stay here.  It was most improper.

He managed to get himself up, and had to use the utensil under the bed.  Getting dressed was painful, slow, and difficult, and he was glad that he had been wearing shoes for driving, not boots for riding. He compromised by putting on his drawers and pantaloons, and one arm into his coat, wrapping the other side around him as best he might.

Effie turned up whilst he was cursing.

“I hope you won’t use such words in front of Alethea,” she said.

“I beg your pardon; I did not hear you come in,” said Geoffrey. “My dear Miss… I did not catch your name…, I fear I must beg you to harness my nags and drive me to the nearest inn. I would be most ungrateful if I stayed here, compromising your good name.”

“Oh, I’m old enough to be on the shelf,” said Effie. “It’s Euphemia Congreve, and I stand in place of a mother to Alethea, my niece.”

“It won’t wash,” said Geoffrey. “You’re far too young and pretty, and if you won’t listen for your own sake, listen for Miss Alethea’s.  I’m going to the inn; I’ve enough blunt to stay there indefinitely, so I can come calling to thank you properly, later.  I, er, apprehend I am borrowing your brother’s nightgown?”

“Yes, Stephen was fortunately a similar size to you.  Well, if you are determined upon this course, at least dine with us; I put dinner back, and killed a hen, and then you’ll be fortified. I’ll pack you another night-gown, and a banyan, and some shirts and underlinen for if you make a protracted stay whilst your memory returns, and your arm heals. How fortunate that I did not give away Stephen’s clothes yet! And you will want his razor and strop, and brush and comb; and I have a new toothbrush that is as yet unused.”

“I am greatly in your debt for your practical turn of mind, Miss Congreve,” said Geoffrey. “I fear I had to use your utensil,” he blushed faintly.

“We all have the same needs,” said Effie.  “That girl will probably empty it out of the window, against all my orders to put such things in the slop bucket to carry down. Patty Ball is, I fear, a feckless piece, but the only servant we can afford these days, I’m afraid.  Like having a small, two-bedroomed cottage, which was as far as Stephen’s savings stretched.”

“Then I am definitely de trop,” said Geoffrey.

“You’ll have to put up with going in our donkey carriage,” said Effie. “Your curricle is broken, if you recall.”

“I’d forgotten,” said Geoffrey. “Oh, dear, you will have to make it right with the innkeeper as I have no name I recall.”

“Well, we know your first name is Geoffrey, so we shall call you Geoffrey Jefferson,” said Effie.

 

 

Two hours later, after a simple, but filling meal of a chicken fricassee with green peas and sundry other vegetables, Geoffrey was ensconced tenderly in the best room of the Running Buck, which was the sort of room in which his servants slept,  under the eaves, a room some ten foot by eight foot, largely taken up by the old-fashioned four-poster bed.  He had no need for a fire in this season, but the small fireplace did not look as though it would provide adequate heat when one was needed.

Well, the innkeeper, Simeon Pigeon, was all that was helpful, and promised his own aid to help Geoffrey dress and undress.

“I could do with a servant while I’m here, and to run messages,” said Geoffrey.

“Well, you could do worse than Pip Moyse,” said Pigeon.

“And who is Pip Moyse?” asked Geoffrey.

“Well, he’s nobbut a lad, sir, and the son of the village ne’er do well, but he’s willing, and tries to keep himself clean,” said Pigeon. “He’d jump at sleeping on your floor, with a blanket, and food if you’ll pay his keep, out o’ the way of his father’s fists.  He runs off to live in an old pigsty often enough, to avoid his da. Good with hosses, too.”

“Well, then, pray engage the services of Pip Moyse for me,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t care how old or young he is, as long as he can be an extra pair of hands, and run about for me while I still feel so deucedly nauseated every time I stand up.”

“Yessir. Did you want the doctor, sir?

“Tell me, if you’d knocked your head, would you call in the doctor?”

“Not half, I wouldn’t; I like my blood in my veins, and not be half poisoned when my Jinny can fix me up with a bandage of vinegar and brown paper.”

“Then, I pray ask your good lady to physic to my head,” said Geoffrey. “Miss Congreve did her best, but I feel in need of someone better acquainted with head wounds.”

“Well, my Jinny knows head wounds, we have some pugilists come here to fight at times,” said Pigeon. “No disrespect to Miss Congreve, but young Miss Congreve hasn’t needed rescuing from the sort of predicaments a boy might do, and my Jinny’s raised four boys as well as physicking pugilists, ar, and she’s seen to some of young Pip’s wounds too from his da.”

“Well, perhaps I can find him a job as my tiger,” said Geoffrey.

“Oh! Incognito, are you… my lord?” asked Pigeon.

“Pigeon, I don’t know if Miss Congreve told you, but I have no idea,” said Geoffrey. “I recall my first name, and that’s it.  But apparently I am the sort of person who might have a tiger.”

“Well, now!  If you ask me, if you’ve forgotten who you are, you probably don’t want to remember yet awhile; so you get well at your own pace.”

 

Tucked up again in bed, with a soothing dressing on the bump on his head, and with a cup of hot chocolate and several macaroons hot out of the oven inside him, Geoffrey’s last thought before sleeping was that the Running Buck’s best accommodation might be physically mean, but was better than some of the best rooms in many a prestigious coaching inn.

 

felicity's fashions 12

 

Chapter 12

 

Hartley House

A Square in London I forgot its name

Somewhere between Friday and Satterday

 

Dear Sarah,

I am staying here for the weekend acoss I fell asleep at the party. It was a right nice party with good food on a booffee as well as supper, but I was asleep before supper. I woke up in a bed and there was a tray with cold meat and pie and some cold stuff with cream in a glass, coo that was loverly! So as I am awake I will write to you while I eat what is here, coo there are cheesecakes as well, I wouldn’t never of eaten one if I’d known what it was called before but I liked them before Felicity [I know how to spell her now] told me.

I danced with a duke who called me ‘Miss Hartley’ and it was very swell, and he said he didn’t mind my accent as long as I didn’t mind his. He was very old though, at least 30, so he was not angling to be my boo to get his hands on Uncle Victor’s money.

I was announced as the daughter of Vincent Hartley, who is dead, so I can’t kick him in the bits and nut him as he comes down, like Cleo taught us to do with bad men.  And Felicity is going to marry Uncle Victor, so that’s good.

There are a heap of maids here so I expect one of them will take this for me.

Your friend,

Trinity

 

 

 

22 Henrietta Street

April 15^th

 

Dear Philippa,

Well, I have had my presentation to society at a betrothal ball, and most people have been very nice, and declared they never believed the rumours. How much of that was truth and how much was polite fiction I will never know, but at least officially it is now recognised as lies. I hope you will be able to come to the wedding, though we are not getting married until the end of summer.  Long enough before the end of the Summer Term to have some time alone, but close enough to it so that Trinity can spend the holiday with us, and whichever friends she wants to invite, as a family.

Victor gave me a ring as a love-token, it is a sapphire with sapphires set round half of it, and diamonds around the other half, very singular, and he had it made especially to represent the crescent moon.

“Why, you have eaten the rest of it,” I said.

“Of course; you may fill me with delight, but I do have man-sized appetites,” he replied.

Helen was busy apologising to everyone that we speak incomprehensible nonsense at times.

I am glad I am not Helen. How dull to be so prosaic!

And I confess, I am looking forward to a moonlight picnic next week. The weather can scarcely be worse than it was today, with sleet of all things.

Your loving sister,

Felicity

 

oOoOo

 

22 Henrietta St

24^th April.

 

Dearest Philippa,

 

I don’t know if your weather was as bad as ours, but as it was stormy all day yesterday, I had little expectation that we should have our moonlight picnic.

Victor collected me, however, and we drove off to Richmond, and I was hoping to be warm enough in the folly, where I anticipated that we might be trying to picnic, as it has some shelter from strong winds. But no, we went inside, into the ballroom, and it seems that Victor and Dr. Mac had put their heads together, and Victor had paid the children to paint sheets to be forests with some greenery added from the shrubbery. I wonder how Finch, the gardener, took that; though possibly Victor charmed him. Finch is very unobliging to people he takes against and will do anything for anyone he likes, after all. Anyway, one gas lamp was lit, and it had as a shade a parchment globe painted to resemble the moon.  Victor spread a rug on the ground, and oh, Philippa!  He had got, as part of the picnic, a whole wheel of cheese for us to break into to represent the moon.

We talked nonsense, and fed each other, and then we discussed the sordid practicalities of money, and the practical practicalities of spending a honeymoon in his country seat, and then having Trinity and sundry other young girls to stay.

And then, Victor kissed me. And it was even better than last time, and do not tut about pickled onions because there is nothing wrong with kissing people who are pickled onion flavoured if you are also pickled onion flavoured yourself.

I confess that our hands wandered considerably, until a very Scots voice informed us that the moon was aye setting, forebye, and high jeenks shuid come to a mare seemly end wi’oot tae mony havers.

So we meekly packed up and came away. I am looking forward to marrying Victor, and it will probably be as well that I will be very busy getting Hermione and Hannah settled in and trained up to it. Phoebe is to marry a nice Jewish boy her foster parents have found for her, so she will not be joining us, but she seems contented with her Reuben.

Your loving sister,

Felicity.

 

oOoOo

A couple of months later

 

“Goodness, it seems such a long time since our moonlight picnic,” said Felicity, as Victor drove her away from their wedding feast and out towards his country seat by the light of the full moon, rising whilst the sun set.

“At least this one is genuine,” said Victor. “I ordered a lovely day for our wedding on purpose, ahead of time.”

Felicity giggled.

“I enjoyed the previous moonlight night very well,” she said. “And this time we shall not have Dr. Mac to break us apart.”

“I confess, I am relieved that the weather is clement, the idea of driving twenty miles in the pouring rain of a summer storm would be daunting,” said Victor.  “However, are you feeling decadent?”

“I always feel decadent close to you and with the moon shining,” said Felicity.

“There’s a loggia along the wall of the house at the side of the master bedchamber, built by my grandsire, who had Italianate pretensions,” said Victor.

“Were they catching?” asked Felicity, with a straight face.

“Were... no, wench, or I’d have caught Italianate from him, and I haven’t.”

“Oh, I am glad; I’m not sure if it’s curable.”

“It wasn’t for my grandsire, anyway,” said Victor. “He collected as many old masters as he could.”

Felicity giggled.

“I’d rather have one young one,” she said.

“Oh, they’re a stubbornly silent lot,” said Victor.

“Good,” said Felicity. “Now what had the loggia to do with anything?”

“It has a flat roof, and with a bit of chicanery, one can climb out of the window onto it.  I was thinking we might manhandle a mattress out there between us and make love in the moonlight.”

“So long as you don’t suddenly sprout hair all over and grow big teeth like that fellow in the Latin story,” said Felicity. “What? I’m no great scholar, but I know a good story when I read it.”

 “I solemnly declare that I am not a werewolf,” said Victor. “I don’t even have a very hairy chest.”

“You have little curls above your trouser waistband where your shirt tucks in,” said Felicity.

“Oh, my dear, I’m not sure I’m going to last twenty miles.”

“You are, and so will I,” said Felicity. “Make the nags go faster.”

“They’ll go quicker if they go steady so they don’t need resting; didn’t your horsy twin teach you that?”

“Well, yes.  How fast are we going?”

“A good steady ten miles an hour. And we will be there by dinner time, and dinner is bespoken.”

“And we will sit at each end of a huge table requiring the telegraph to converse,” said Felicity.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then, when we are in there, I am going to take off my stockings and give them to you to keep warm throughout dinner,” said Felicity, recklessly. “And see how decadent you can feel.”

“I feel as decadent as a despot already,” said Victor.  “Sorry we have to travel to get there; perhaps we should have had our wedding night in Grosvenor Square.”

“Not at all; Helen would have been hearty at us early in the morning, and I can handle early in the morning but not after I have been up all night. And I hope we will be up all night?” asked Felicity.

“Up, and down, and up, and down... and so on,” said Victor, occasioning a blush from Felicity. “What a pretty blush!”

“So’s yours,” retorted Felicity. “As bright as the sunset. The sunset is going to be spectacular to drive into; we could almost be driving up a sunbeam into its fiery realms.”

“Careful; the moon will be jealous,” said Victor.

“Oh, we cannot have that,” said Felicity. “Your seat is in the wrong direction.”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Victor. “I didn’t have a choice about it.”

“Oh, well, it is a minor fault in a husband, and I forgive it,” said Felicity, gaily. They bowled on as the sky darkened behind them and the last vestiges of the sun sank below the horizon in a display of splendid colours.

 “I ordered that for you, as well,” said Victor.

“What a glorious dress it would be,” said Felicity, dreamily. “I’m not sure whether to make it a bright darkish blue with applique from the hem up, giving weight, and with the colours added there, or whether to have a golden bodice on the blue, and partial skirts of the different bright colours at one side descending randomly down over the gown.”

“Do both,” said Victor. “But after our honeymoon.”

“I can remember the colours,” said Felicity.

“Good,” said Victor. “I’m not sharing  you with your talent.” 

 

 

The country seat was something of an ordeal, as Felicity must meet and greet the servants, and find something nice to say, and to be ensconced at the foot of the table, with Victor at its head, and a well-wrought, but intrusive epergne between them.

Felicity firmly moved her cutlery beside him.

“I am not sharing you with anyone, even the cheekiest satyr in the world and his nymphs,” she said, firmly.

“No, by Jove, they are frisky but very much in the way,” said Victor. “I will sit opposite you this way round, where your wickedly bare feet can reach me under the table.”

The young couple did not do justice to the repast, though Felicity thanked the cook very prettily and suffered herself to be led to the Mistress suite, also decorated in the Italianate style with trompe l’oielle paintings of Tuscan countryside seen through painted window frames and trellis work. Felicity had to admit she had seen more over-decorated houses. 

 

A little later, Felicity had washed, brushed her teeth, put on a nightgown of the sort which was supposed to be taken off, and joined her husband in manhandling a feather mattress out of the big window, followed by sheets and pillows and a light comforter in case it turned chilly.

The young couple were both giggling when they jumped into bed and started exploring new territory under the moonlight.

Both managed to howl at the moon as creditably as if they had, indeed been werewolves.

 

A long time later, Felicity snuggled up to her husband.

“It’s a bit chilly,” she said.

“Do you want me to go and look for another blanket?” asked Victor.

“Don’t be silly, Victor, I want to check that exercise warms one up,” said Felicity.

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry I was stupid,” said Victor. “But fair’s fair, I did all the work up to now, it’s time you took a turn driving.”

“Can you still see the moon?”

“Very clearly.”

“Well, then, you must stay very still whilst I drive because you don’t want to curdle it by moving too much.”

“I’ll show you curdle!”

 

 

 I just wrapped 'The Purloined Parure' for Alex and Ida; I was considering taking the weekend off before posting, but I can probably have my arm bent.