Susan Carroll by Masquerade

"Go right in, yer ladyship. I'll wager Master Weylin be
powerful eager to see you."
    Phaedra ground her teeth but pretended that
she had not heard the woman's taunting words. Not waiting for one
of the footmen to bow her inside, Phaedra flung open one of the
doors and stepped inside the lofty chamber, all gold and cream, the
rococo plasterwork of scrolls and twisting leaves as elegant as a
king's stateroom. The anteroom was sparsely furnished, with a few
uninviting splat-back chairs. Sawyer Weylin did not like anyone to
be too comfortable while awaiting his pleasure.
    Most of the men crowded into the anteroom
preferred to stand. Since her grandfather had managed to obtain a
seat in parliament, his levees seemed more popular than ever.
Phaedra pressed forward a few steps and was obliged to flatten
herself against the wall as two footmen brushed past her, dragging
a man from the room. The haggard-looking individual bore not much
chance in his struggle against her grandfather's burly servants,
the young man's limbs like thin sticks protruding from his shabby
second-hand garb.
    "Stop your carryings on," one of the footmen
growled. "The master does not receive slum rats like you here."
    "I have to see him," the man sobbed. "I have
to have my wages. My wife and child are ill-" The rest of his
protest was lost as Weylin's servants dragged him out of the
room.
    "John," Phaedra attempted to call after the
footman, to see what the trouble was, but the minute she spoke, she
found herself surrounded. She could not see past the tops of
white-powdered wigs bending over her. Masculine voices importuned
her on all sides.
    "Lady Grantham, a moment of your time. I hear
your grandfather is seeking an architect after the style of Adam. I
know of just such a fellow."
    "Your ladyship, your grandfather promised to
get my son a post in the customs office."
    "Please, Mr. Weylin's not receiving anyone
this morning. If you could put in a word-"
    "Gentlemen, please." Phaedra raised one hand,
attempting to ward them all off, refraining from telling the last
poor fool who spoke that a word from her would surely condemn his
cause.
    When her grandfather refused to allow anyone
into his private dressing room, Phaedra knew, he was usually in a
vile humor. Otherwise, a privileged few were generally permitted
into that inner sanctum, to wheedle and flatter while the old man
donned his wig. Phaedra elbowed her way out of the circle of
anxious place-seekers and tradesmen, squaring her shoulders for the
battle to come.
    Slipping through the door at the end of the
anteroom, she shut it firmly in the faces of the disappointed
throng. Although designated as a dressing room, this inner chamber
was fully as large and ostentatious as the anteroom, with gilt
chairs placed as though for a performance. But the chief actor was
obviously in too surly a humor to ring up the curtain today.
    One gout-ridden foot propped up on a pile of
feather-tic pillows, Sawyer Weylin shifted his not inconsiderable
bulk upon cushions of Italian velvet, resting his large-knuckled
hands along arm rails carved into the shape of snarling lions. The
chair resembled a throne that might have been found in the palace
of the Venetian Doges. Her grandfather could easily have passed for
an Italian despot, with his impressive jowls, his heavy-lidded
eyes, and a powdering jacket drawn about his bull-like neck.
    He took no note of Phaedra's entrance, his
features florid with a rage directed at the barber trembling before
him.
    The man timidly held up a gray bagwig. "I
assure you, sir, 'tis designed in the latest fashion."
    "Bah! I can't abide gray." Weylin slapped his
own bald pate."Think that I shaved off the remnants of my own hair
for you to trick me out like some old woman. And charge me thirty
guineas into the bargain."
    "The price is more than fair, and gray is
most becoming to you. Surely my lady agrees."
    The barber's remark and his hopeful glance at
Phaedra alerted her grandfather to her presence.