The River Horse Tsar by Brenda Clough

Author:Brenda Clough [Clough, Brenda W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Victorian thriller, historical adventure, action/adventure
ISBN: 9781611389579
Publisher: Book View Cafe
Published: 2021-06-15T05:00:00+00:00

Cranmorden, in Gloucestershire

8 July

My connection to the nobility is of the most tenuous: Herbert Halcombe Faversham Lowry, earl of Brecon and Stowe, is my third cousin. However, I have accomplished some important tasks for him, and am therefore esteemed. Also, Winny his countess is the dearest creature with whom I maintain a regular correspondence. And I am held in high regard by Madame Cresside, the dowager countess.

I arrived at Cranmorden alone, Theo being obliged to return to town (again!), but my welcome was warm. “You are family, and so must have your former room in our wing.” Winny’s dark eyes sparkled with pleasure at my arrival. Her slender waist and light step showed how well she was recovered from Cressy’s birth. “Madame insists that you be near her. It is so much more pleasant for a lady of her years, to be in the main house. We still have not rebuilt the Dower House, but Goatie did have the site cleared and now it is quite ruinous and rustic, with roses climbing over the stones. And you will tell us of Mr. Hartright’s rescue, will you not? Is it true, the report in the newspapers, that he was rescued from an underground vault where he had been buried alive?”

“It was nothing so thrilling, I fear,” I said. The Foreign Office has discouraged gossip for fear of diplomatic consequences.

And to the earl’s mother Madame Cresside, my oldest friend here at Cranmorden, I was able to confide my sartorial difficulty. “No gown?” she cried. “You are Cendrillon, yes, with la petite pantoufle de verre.” The dowager’s arthritis has made walking difficult, but her forget-me-not blue eyes were as sharp as ever, and the lace widow’s cap perched on her high-piled white hair was in the latest mode. “We will consult Sylvie, yes? You recall that Sylvie can work the miracles.”

What the dowager’s French dresser Mlle. Sylvie does not know about fashion could be engraved upon a copper farthing, and so I made haste to show the two old ladies my fuchsia-satin ball gown.

Sylvie recalled it immediately from a few seasons ago. “The colour is well-suited to Madame Marian’s complexion.” She turned up the hem and ran an expert thumb over the horsehair facing. “Your taste has always been good. But the skirt, decidedly no. The bell silhouette is no longer the mode. The fullness must be towards the back. And the elbow sleeves, they are now only worn by matrons. You are still young enough to show the arms and décolletage, Madame. The figure, while one has it, must be flaunted, eh?”

“It is the duty of woman,” Madame Cresside agreed. She cocked her head like a wise old parrot contemplating a biscuit. “The skirts are well enough, easily redraped. But the bodice, it cries out ‘winter.’ There is the place for the renovation.”

“With a new and daring neckline,” Sylvie added.

“I put myself without reservation into your expert hands, Sylvie,” I said.

Confident in her expertise, Sylvie replied, “See that you acquire the long white satin gloves that a sleeveless ball gown shall require.

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