Frederica in Fashion by MC Beaton

of smoky fires, damp dogs and brandy.
    Sarah’s room was in one of the attics at the top of the house. As they climbed higher, they could hear the rain drumming and pounding on the roof as if trying to get in.
    ‘Dreadful storm,’ said the vicar. ‘Better get this pesky business over and make sure hounds’ kennels ain’t leaking.’
    Mr Pettifor primmed his lips in disapproval. Poor Sarah was probably breaking her heart while her hardhearted seducer worried about a pack of smelly dogs.
    The vicar was prepared for a defiant, noisy Sarah. A great wave of guilt hit him when he saw the dejected figure sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were red with crying and her hair was unkempt.
    Sarah had had quite a time on her own to consider her dismal future. Mrs Hammer had dinned into her ears tales of the iniquities of Guy Wentwater and how he would do anything to get even with the vicar. She knew she could not even expect to get a reference. She had no family and no savings. A vision of the workhouse in Hopeminster rose before her mind’s eye.
    As the vicar entered the room, she bowed her head, awaiting her fate.
    ‘Well, Sarah,’ said the vicar hurriedly, ‘seems you’ve suffered enough. Mr Pettifor here wants a word with you.’
    The vicar backed to the door. Mr Pettifor sidled round him.
    ‘Miss Millet,’ said Mr Pettifor. ‘I would behonoured … deeply honoured … if you would present me with your hand in marriage.’
    Sarah blinked, and then a hard, sullen look fell on her face. ‘He forced you to ask,’ she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the vicar who was backing out onto the landing.
    Mr Pettifor knelt in front of the maid and took her hand in his own.
    ‘No one could force me to marry anyone, Miss Millet. I love you, and I think you are the most wonderful lady I ever beheld.’
    The effect of his words on Sarah was amazing.
    For a moment, she sat and stared at the curate. Then it seemed as if the red left her eyes like magic, that her lank hair curled up about her head, that she seemed to shine from head to foot.
    ‘Oh, Mr Pettifor ,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, ever so.’
    The Reverend Charles Armitage felt more lighthearted than he had felt for a long time. He cheerfully slammed the door on the happy couple and went off down the stairs, whistling ‘The Lass of Richmond Hill’.
    He headed out the front door and made for the kennels. Now he could turn his mind to more serious matters.

FIVE
    Frederica Armitage did not entertain any romantic ideas about the Duke of Pembury. She was too much in awe of him. In fact, she was too much in awe of everyone. She felt the unspoken disapproval of the Duke of Pembury’s servants, and, as far as the house guests were concerned, she barely existed.
    Dinner was an agony of trying to think what to say. Lady Godolphin was flirting awfully with an elderly county gentleman and did not concern herself overmuch with Frederica. There were no men present whom Lady Godolphin considered of a suitable age for Frederica, and, therefore, she had planned to reserve her match-making energies until she got the girl to London.
    Only Mary, the maid, remained the same, cheerful and willing, and excited at the prospect of going to London.
    Shy and sensitive, Frederica did not realize the unfriendliness she sensed was not directed against herself. The house party was not a success. Normally , the gentlemen would have gone out hunting or shooting during the day and the ladies would have gone for picnics and walks.
    But the rain fell heavily, steadily and unremittingly, so everyone was confined indoors. Since no one but Frederica and the duke read much, the guests ate too much and spent the afternoons in a somnolent state and then passed the long evenings cheating each other at cards.
    As for the duke, he seemed too busy with the affairs of his vast estates to trouble himself much about his guests. By supplying vast quantities of food and drink, billiards and cards, the