Letters From the Attic, Book 1:

~ Yours In Haste ~

 

by

Sara V. Olds and Roberta O. Major

“Half the servants will look more festive than you.” The blue-eyed beauty looked her cousin over with exasperated affection. “Why did you not let Letty affix even one patch, Fraser? Our guests will find you a figure of fun.”

The look Fraser turned on her cousin was full of a genuine affection and tolerance, fostered by life--long acquaintance. “You, however, look lovely, Catherine.”

Catherine’s glossy black curls were powdered to a perfect whiteness, her white bosom rising from a froth of white lace, her slim legs and tiny waist encased in sweeping white brocade, and the diamond buckles on her dancing shoes sparkling no less than the vivid blue of her eyes. Only her flushed cheeks and one strategically placed patch--called The Kiss for its nearness to her pink lips--interrupted the dazzling whiteness of her ensemble.

Catherine preened at the compliment, and then chuckled. “You naughty thing! You mean to distract me from my tirade! It won’t work you know. I intend to give you the dressing down you deserve.”

“Better for you to dress me down than dress me up,” Fraser replied, smiling. “I truly would look a figure of fun had you and Letty done as you wanted to with me.”

“But--”

“No, Cousin, I am no sweet young miss, bedecked in white, with form and figure to entice a gentleman into making improper advances--”

“You might at least have powdered your hair,” Catherine said with a pout. “It is so very red, Cousin.”

“Powder itches.” Fraser’s smile was calm, though a twinkle lurked in her green eyes.

“Of course it itches,” Catherine said with an impatient tap of her fan. “Did your mother never tell you that you must suffer to be beautiful?”

Fraser chuckled at this. “It would take a prodigious amount of suffering on my part.” And then, for a moment, melancholy touched the round, freckled face. “And Mother died too soon to give me such important advice.” Deliberately, she sighed the melancholy away. “So you must take me as I am, Cousin, for, at four-and-twenty, I am not like to change.”

Catherine linked her arm with Fraser’s. “I am happy to take you as you are, Fraser. And though your dress is plain and old--”

“Like me,” Fraser interjected.”

“Like you,” Catherine agreed, mock-seriously, “its hue does compliment your eyes.”

“That is like to be the only compliment I receive tonight, so I shall enjoy it.”

“Uncle Bertram looks fine in his evening dress,” Catherine said as she espied Fraser’s father across the room.

There was tenderness in Fraser’s smile. “He looks like a partridge done up in glossy raven feathers. Never mind. Papa and I shall not shame you on your last night before leaving Oxfordshire. All your guests shall find us terribly mindful of the honour you do us in including us in your festivities.”

Catherine shook her head. “Pshaw.” She skipped a few feet away and, reaching back, grabbed Fraser by one green silk clad elbow and pulled her forward. Her blue eyes twinkled with new life. “You ought to go with us to London, Fraser. Think of the fun we could have together!”

Fraser assumed an expression of mock-horror. “London? Never! Did I go with you to London I might be forced to endure Jamie’s merciless teasing, John’s supercilious ill humours, and Nigel’s overwhelming piety. No, Cousin, I leave London--and all of your brothers--to you.”

At the reference to her older siblings, Catherine glanced across the room. She nodded, directing Fraser to notice her eldest brother John, who stood leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, fair eyebrows furrowed in a contemptuous knot. 

Catherine sighed. “It is too bad his face cannot match the fine tailoring of his clothes. One look from him would fair freeze any of these maidens in her spot. Fie! I wish Papa could see him now. I should think his cross words would be sent in John’s direction for once.” A wicked grin slipped across her lips. “A welcome change, eh, Cousin?” 

Music burst forth into the room like water from a lifted floodgate.

“Papa is about to open the dancing,” Catherine said. “Who shall I encourage to partner me, Fraser?” Her blue eyes scanned the room eagerly.

“You shall have no need to encourage them,” Fraser said as three young men approached the two cousins.

“Not a brain between them, I fear,” said Catherine under her breath. “But then, with a face like his--” She nodded to the most handsome of the trio. “--and legs that look as though they could still a lunging stallion, who has the need for brains?”

“Catherine!” Fraser’s soft rebuke was weakened by the mirth in her eyes.

Catherine giggled and spread her fan, batting her eyelashes at the young men while whispering, “Though I don’t suppose any of them have enough money or wield enough power to quench Papa’s insatiable thirst.”

As eagerly as swans in the river vying for a crust of bread thrown from the shore, the young men closed in around the youngest child of the Earl of Leicester, politely elbowing Fraser out of the way.

Fraser, her smile rueful and unoffended, sought out her father.

Sir Bertram Hollyforth was a bluff, hearty little dumpling of a man. When Fraser approached him, he reached to give her plump waist a squeeze. “Having a jolly time at this parade of fools?” he asked.

Fraser saw that his face was flushed, as if with too much drink.

“Demmed hot in here,” Sir Bertie said, reaching for a handkerchief and mopping his brow with such vigor that it knocked his wig askew. His brown eyes, so like those of a basset hound’s, looked overly bright.

Fraser put the back of her hand to his cheek. “Papa, you are as hot as a posset! We need to get you back to Hollybrook Hall this very instant, and put you to bed.”

“No need,” Sir Bertie said, but his usual firm voice was slurred. “Demme, Fiona, there’s no need to spoil young Fraser’s fun.”

Fraser flinched at his use of her long--dead mother’s name. Ignoring his protests, she put her arm around his shoulders and steered him through the increasingly crowded room.

“What ho, Cousin?”

It was the youngest of Catherine’s three older brothers.

“Jamie, can you have our carriage called for? Papa is trifle unwell.”

Jamie, perceptive enough to forego the banter that usually spiced his exchanges with his cousin, turned to do Fraser’s bidding.

When he returned, it was just in time to help her support Sir Bertram, whose knees seemed suddenly to have difficulty in supporting him. “Gad, Uncle Bertram! You’re hotter than coals!”

“Demmed room’s too demmed close,” the older man said, trying to brush off the hands that supported him. “Fiona will soon have me feeling right as rain.”

Fraser turned a stricken face to Jamie, who, equally stunned, managed a shrug. “That’s right, sir. You’re in good hands. Here’s your carriage.” He helped Fraser lead the old man out and tuck him safely into the waiting conveyance.

“Tell Catherine I’m sorry not to be here to bid her good-bye,” Fraser said as she scrambled in next to her father. “Tell her I hope she enjoys London.” She turned to her father and helped him loosen his waistcoat and neck cloth as the shabby Hollyforth carriage started forward with a lurch.

The gallop ended and Catherine, barely out of breath, was returned reluctantly to her court of admirers. She looked in vain for Fraser, hoping for some semblance of rescue from the tedium. She plied her fan and made a sally that had the young men around her laughing with obvious delight. 

The music began again then, and she turned attention to the cries of “You must choose me, Lady Catherine” and “You promised the next gavotte to me!” and “Lady Catherine! Lady Catherine! Lady Catherine!”