The Woman In The Golden Dress. Nicola CornickЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Constance

      London, Late Spring 1763

      I had never liked Lady Gerard. Over time, I grew to hate her.

      The hatred began the day she would not give me the golden gown. I had not anticipated that she would wish to keep it, not when it had provoked so vile a scene between her and his lordship. Perhaps that had been naïve of me for she was never generous. While other maids were well rewarded by their grateful mistresses, I received very little but complaint. Many times I sat late into the night, mending her clothes so meticulously until the candle smoke stung my eyes and my vision blurred, only for her to decide the following day that the stitches were too large and I must unpick them and start again. She was an ingrate.

      Lord and Lady Gerard had no money. The household lived on promise alone. Lord G was always in debt, or drunk, or both, lurching from one unhappy scandal to the next, from one syphilitic-ridden mistress to another. He and Lady Gerard could not bear one another. It only astonished me that they had thought to marry in the first place.

      Don’t misunderstand me. I hated him too. He was forever angry, violent and unhappy as though driven by devils. It was Lord G who had appointed me her ladyship’s maid two years before and she had accepted without a demur. No doubt she was pleased that I was small and dark and plain beside her fair, glowing prettiness. Lord G might hate her but there were many men about Town who did not. Not one of them looked at me when she was by, and that flattered her vanity.

      What she did not know was that I might be her maid but I was Lord Gerard’s spy as well. In that sense I was as contemptible as a whore, bought and paid for. I had to please him. My life depended on it.

      Early that morning, before he left for Paris, Lord G called me to his study. He was dressed for travelling, pacing the room as though he were anxious to be off which, given the violent row he had had with his wife the previous night, hardly surprised me.

      ‘Lawrence,’ he said, on seeing me. ‘I have a task for you.’

      It was not the first time.

      ‘Yes, my lord?’ I cast my gaze meekly on the floor the way he liked me to do.

      ‘The golden gown I gave my wife last night.’ He was standing directly in front of me. I could see his boots, highly polished, against the colourful pattern of the carpet. ‘I want you to destroy it.’

      I knew better than to question Lord G, no matter what it was he demanded of me. I knew better than to speculate on why he acted as he did. I kept my mind blank and my voice quiet.

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘You must do as I say. It is imperative.’ He took my chin in his hand and forced my face up so that I met his eyes. They were fierce, as was the frown between his brows. He looked very angry but then I had never known him otherwise.

      ‘Yes, my lord,’ I repeated.

      His hand tightened about my jaw. ‘And no one must know. Do you understand?’ He gave me a little shake. My teeth chattered.

      I could not have spoken had I wished, but he must have read my acquiescence in my eyes for he nodded and released me. My chin felt bruised, registering the imprint of his fingers. ‘Good girl.’ He moved away from me; turned back. ‘Your family are all well, I hope?’

      I felt a chill. Here was the reminder, the threat, to ram home the need for me to obey. ‘They are all very well, thank you, my lord.’

      ‘Good.’ His look was sharp, matching his tone. ‘Make sure you keep it that way. We would not wish the authorities to enquire too closely into your father’s business, would we?’

      I felt a flash of hatred. ‘No, my lord.’

      He nodded. ‘Off you go then, Lawrence. Oh—’ His voice stopped me at the door. ‘Be sure to write to me with the details of how Lady Gerard progresses.’

      You would think he was concerned for her welfare but I knew better. He wanted to know who she saw, where she went, what she did. As I said, I was his spy.

      A half hour later, the door banged behind him as he left for Paris and a gloomy quiet settled on the house. I crept upstairs to the dressing room, anxious not to disturb my lady, since she was always in a bad mood early in the morning.

      The door to her bedroom was ajar. I could hear her snoring and was relieved that she slept. I had imagined that she would lie awake all night in pain, tormented by the terrible argument and the violence that had followed. But perhaps she was sick and exhausted. I should feel more sympathy for her. Yet I did not. Many men enforced their will through their fists. It was a fact of life. Besides, her ladyship provoked her husband with her flirtations. I was her maid so I knew all about the late night trysts and the whispered promises, the dallying in the dark walks at Vauxhall. What did she expect in return? Not many men happily accepted that what was sauce for the goose was also sauce for the gander. It was a matter of pride to them, a matter of reputation.

      Pale light from a crack between the curtains glimmered on the material of the golden gown. It lay across the back of one of the chairs where Lord G had thrown it when her ladyship had declined to wear it. All I had to do was creep into the room and take it before she woke. I could destroy it as Lord G had demanded and when – if – she asked me, I would pretend I knew nothing of it.

      ‘Constance?’

      Too late. She had woken. It was her ‘pity me’ voice.

      I pushed open the door and went in.

      ‘Madam?’

      ‘Call Dr Baird. I need him. At once.’

      My heart beat a little faster. I could not help myself. At one time I had imagined myself marrying Dr Baird. Why should I not? He was handsome and clever, and I was an educated woman, suitable to be the wife of a professional man even if I was only a lady’s maid. He would smile on me sometimes. We would exchange a few words. That was all it took for me to fall in love with him and I allowed myself to dream that we might be together.

      One night I did more than merely dream. I called by his lodgings to collect some medicine for my lady. I should have sent the footman, of course, but she insisted on discretion and that I should be her messenger. So I went.

      He seemed quite different that night. He was in his shirtsleeves, his neck cloth undone, a bottle of red wine on the table by his chair and a fire in the grate. I joined him in a glass and sat with him in the warmth and we talked, and when he kissed me and drew me down to lie with him before the fire I had no thought of resisting. I was full of joy.

      But I soon saw that what was, for me, infinitely precious, was to him… well, I know not what. Nothing out of the ordinary, perhaps, a diversion, or even a mistake.

      It did not take me long to realise that Dr Baird was even more ambitious than I. He would never again look my way, other than to ask me to pass him a bowl of water with which to tend to Lady Gerard. Knowing that did not stop me loving him, of course, but it did curdle that loving into bitterness.

      ‘Constance. You’re dreaming.’ Her voice snapped sharp enough for a sick woman. And I automatically dropped a curtsey.

      ‘Your pardon, my lady.’ I was so adept at being meek.

      I went to find a footman to run the errand. When I returned, my lady was reclining on her pillows so that the light accentuated her pallor and the bruising to her eye and cheek. She was a talented artist and could never resist a pose. I turned away in disgust.

      ‘Constance, fetch me my yellow peignoir.’ She was looking around, fussing. ‘And tidy the room. Not that—’ She spoke sharply as I reached over to grab the golden gown from the back of the chair. ‘Leave it. Fetch me tea. I don’t want toast. I cannot eat.’

      ‘My lady.’ My mother would have been proud of my obedience. She had told me from the first what