NINE
In the middle of October, the Ashfords decamped for London, in keeping with the traditions of the moneyed class. Maddie’s lessons went on as before, her schedule altered slightly to allow for advanced instruction in oil painting under the tutelage of Benjamin West, a fellow American. Amusement was plentiful, with the Admiral finding something delightful to share with her almost every day. The city was enormous, far larger than Charleston, more teeming with people, dirtier and smokier and louder. Her stepfather was hers to command, ready to buy her ices or books or pretty little baubles that caught her eye. Everywhere they went, he introduced her as his daughter, his precious, his delight. She glowed under the bright light of his attention.
Christmas in England was glorious, spent in company with the Powell menagerie. Meeting her mother’s dearest friend and hearing tales of old Charles Town were such joys that Maddie wished the holiday season would never end. Even though she could only linger on the fringes, she reveled in the warmth and love of a family that was closely tied to her own, both old and new. The sojourn brought her closer to her stepfather, who loved her almost like her mother did, but in a way that was both stern and indulgent at the same time.
When she returned to London in January, Maddie called on her mother’s dressmaker to be fitted for another new wardrobe. Madame Rochford had studied under Rose Bertin, who had dressed Madame Beauchamp even before the French Revolution, and she was almost giddy over the prospect of dressing the great lady’s daughter. “So like a seedling, ma chère, sprouting tall and spindly. Soon you will blossom into a beautiful flower like your maman,” Madame Rochford said. “Like her, you will be the leader and all the other women will want to copy your style.”
“His lordship insists on simple, practical garments,” Madame LaSalle said. The governess was a firm believer in practicality. “At least until Miss Ashford knows her own mind, yes?”
“But he also ordered something suitable for a grand occasion,” Madame Rochford said. Shivering in her chemise before the large mirrors, Maddie turned from side to side to examine her figure from all angles. If Lady Jane was to be believed, changes were coming that would yield improvements, the addition of curves that held great appeal to men. What constituted improvement was not clear in Maddie’s mind, but a couple of bumps had sprouted on her chest and that was certainly a change.
“A wedding,” Madame LaSalle said.
“Yes, for Miss Ashford’s wedding.” Madame Rochford swept out of the room and returned with a few bolts of jewel-toned silks. “I will look always for the perfect fabric, and when I find it, I will store it away. Ivory, to set off her hair. Embroidery in silver. So little time to plan. I must prepare at once.”
While Maddie looked forward to Mariah Powell’s wedding, she was keenly aware that the Admiral was not equally enthusiastic. The event was originally scheduled for late spring, when the weather was fine, but had hastily been moved forward to late February. The Admiral was quite on edge, more snappish and less patient, but in spite of his bad temper he wanted Maddie near him almost all the time. To appease him, she was agreeable to a trip to Farthingmill Abbey, even though she had planned to celebrate her thirteenth birthday with the Powells.
Her stepfather’s mind was elsewhere that day when he stopped at a shop in town to buy a bouquet of winter irises. In silence, he escorted Maddie to the parish church, where he brought her to a chapel tucked into the west transept. Taking a key from his vest pocket, he unlocked the wrought iron gate and pushed it open amid a great squeal of unoiled hinges. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that muddled through the stained glass windows. Maddie examined the intricate pattern and noticed the Bransmore crest soldered into the center of each pane. Under her feet was stone so cold it penetrated the soles of her boots, each slab carved in unique styles. Other large stones were cemented into the wall across from the altar, a gathering of bas reliefs and Latin script. She took a step backwards, as if she wanted to walk away, but the Admiral had a firm hand on her back and he pushed her forward.
“Sarah, Lady Bransmore,” he said, his fingers tracing the letters like a brand burning into the marble. He placed the flowers on the altar and bowed his head, hands clasped before him. Maddie was drawn to him, seeking the warmth and security of his embrace. With her head pressed to his chest, the steady thump of his heart in her ear, she hugged him with all the power she could muster. “We have each other, my angel. Remember that I will never abandon you. Call and I will come if I can, or send others if I cannot. But you are not alone.”
“You have said you must leave me,” Maddie said. “That you must go to war.”
“Only for a short time. And will you not be leaving me in five short years?”
“I shall do as I please when I am a great lady.”
“As well you should,” he said, a smile replacing a frown. “Until then, you must work very hard to become a great lady who follows her own path. So like your mother. My jewel.”