Julia Justiss - A Most Unconventional Match

‘Always am anyway,’ Hal mumbled.

Jeffers nodded sympathetically. ‘Quite.’

‘What’s in ’em?’ Hal gestured to the boxes. ‘Know you’ve looked.’

Jeffers cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Waterman purchased some garments that she felt might assist you in updating your wardrobe to present a more fashionable appearance.’

Hal rolled his eyes. ‘How bad are they?’

Jeffers opened the first box. ‘Wellington pantaloons are quite stylish now,’ he said, shaking out the garment and holding it up.

Grimacing, Hal inspected the long pants that featured side slits from calves down to ankles, where they fastened with loops and buttons at the heel. ‘Not so bad, but keep my breeches.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The valet opened the next box, and with a determinedly straight face, held up a waistcoat.

Alternating blue and yellow stripes, each nearly three inches wide, met Hal’s incredulous view.

‘Mrs Waterman said it was all the crack,’ Jeffers informed him.

Hal snorted. ‘Don’t doubt. On man my size, look like curtains out of bordello.’

The valet’s lips twitched. ‘I believe this last item meant to avoid that by giving you a more…slender look.’ He removed the garment from its box and held it out.

‘What the—?’ Hal exclaimed.

‘’Tis a Cumberland corset,’ the valet explained. ‘The body contains whalebone stays, which, once placed about the waist, cinch in with these strings…’

Hal nipped the garment from his servant’s hand, looked it over briefly—and burst out laughing. After a moment, Jeffers lost the battle to maintain an expressionless demeanour and started laughing as well.

Finally containing his mirth, Hal wiped his eyes and tossed the corset back in its box, where it collapsed in a clunk of whalebone.

‘I’d give ’em to poor, but poor not sapskulled enough to wear ’em. Take ’em, please.’ Hal stacked the boxes and handed them back to Jeffers. ‘New, and if know Mama, highest quality. Suppose you can sell ’em somewhere.’

‘Should I place the money in the household accounts?’

‘’Course not. Abominations yours now. As you well know, you damnable pirate. Sold enough of Mama’s gifts over years to fund retirement.’

Jeffers grinned. ‘Thank you, sir, ’tis very generous.’

‘Off with you,’ Hal said, grinning back. ‘One thing, Jeffers…’

Already carrying away the boxes, the valet halted. ‘Sir?’

‘Catch you wearing that waistcoat, you’re discharged.’

Jeffers swallowed a chuckle. ‘If I should ever don a garment even remotely resembling that waistcoat, sir, you may have me taken straight to Bedlam. Oh, Mrs Waterman did mention she hoped you’d have the manners to return her call.’

Hal sighed as he watched the heavily-laden Jeffers walk out. That was surely the purpose of his mother bringing gifts—besides her unslakeable urge to make purchases, of course. She knew that should she not find Hal at home, he would be obligated to call and thank her for her kindness.

At which time she would probably chastise him for his ingratitude in not wearing the new trousers and waistcoat. Recalling the latter, Hal grimaced. He’d suffer a hundred jawbonings before he’d wear a monstrosity like that.

Did Mama really think that a whalebone contraption and one hideous waistcoat could turn him into the pattern-card of fashion she wished him to be? Or was she merely trying to irritate him beyond bearing?

Unhappily, he was going to have to call on her and find out. Best do it first thing this afternoon and get it over with, before he went to Bow Street to investigate Mrs Lowery’s unsavoury caller.

Setting his lips in a grim line at the prospect, Hal tugged the bell pull to call for luncheon.

Several hours later, after dressing with a care that would doubtless be lost on a lady who was anticipating lace-tied pant legs and a boldly striped waistcoat, Hal presented himself at the large family manse on Berkeley Square. Holmes, his mother’s butler, showed him to the Green Parlour, assuring him his mother had been anticipating his call and would receive him directly.

Palms already sweating, Hal propped one shoulder against the mantel, hoping his mama’s social schedule was full enough that the time she’d allotted for this visit would be correspondingly brief.

He heard the door open, heralding his mother’s arrival, and took a deep breath. As Mrs Waterman swept into the room, Hal walked over to make his bow and kiss his mother’s proffered hand.

‘Lovely gown, Mama. Look enchanting.’

As, in truth, she did. Through arts jealously guarded by that lady and her dresser Hayes, though she was well passed her fortieth year, Letitia Waterman contrived to appear decades younger. Her intricately arranged blonde curls were as bright, her body as slender and her pale skin almost as unlined as when she had been the brightest new Diamond in society’s Marriage Mart, a society over which she ruled still.

One of the scores of beaux she’d dazzled her first Season had been Hal’s father, Nathan. And since, though the Watermans were untitled, the family was related by blood or marriage to half the great houses of England and possessed more wealth than most of them put together, it hadn’t been thought surprising that, from the scores of offers she’d reportedly received, she had condescended to bestow her hand upon Nathan Waterman.

Hal sometimes wondered if his father had ever regretted that.

‘Thank you, dear.’ His mother’s eyes, blue where his were grey, inspected him before she made a small moue of distaste and waved him to a chair. ‘I see you failed to avail yourself of the more fashionable garments I selected for you.’

‘Sorry, Mama. Most kind of you. But not my style.’

‘That’s precisely the point, son,’ she replied, a touch of acid in her tone. ‘I was attempting to replace “no style” with something more befitting a man of your stature, but I see that, once again, you have rebuffed my attempt.’

There was no point answering that, even if Hal were tempted to try to make an explanation. She’d only interrupt his laborious reply, wincing slightly as if his halting speech pained her, which he supposed it did.

Really, son, must you be so blockish? Her oft-repeated reprimand echoed in his head. Just state what you mean! If only it were that simple, Mama, he thought.

It wasn’t that he didn’t immediately formulate a reply. He just couldn’t get the words out. Not for the first time, he regretted that humans didn’t communicate by note.

He was an eloquent writer, all his Oxford professors had agreed. He’d even gained somewhat of a reputation penning amusing doggerel for his friends’ amateur theatricals. And, though he’d never admit it to anyone, occasionally he still wrote sonnets like the ones that had earned him high marks in his composition classes.

Though his mama, were she aware of this talent, would probably find it as shocking as his financial pursuits. A gentleman was prized for his clever, amusing drawing-room conversation, not for sitting alone scribbling verse.

She covered his silence by asking Holmes to pour wine before turning back to him, a smile fixed on her face.

Apprehension immediately began churning in Hal’s gut. He knew that smile. Mama wanted something from him, and past experience warned it wouldn’t be anything he had the remotest desire to give.

Hal waited grimly while the butler served them and then withdrew. As soon as they’d each had a sip, his mama put down her glass and smiled again. Hal braced himself.

‘It’s been weeks since I’ve had you to escort me anywhere. All that travelling about in the north, inspecting some dreadful earthworks or other.’