Free The Last Refuge by Marcia Talley Page B

I’m sure, but when my mother found out, she worried – you know mothers – called me three times a day from Nashua, New Hampshire, left messages on my cell, insisted I move back in with her, but . . . well, if you knew my mother, you’d understand why I preferred to run away to the eighteenth century!’ She paused, head cocked while she concentrated on hooking me into my stomacher. ‘There!’ She took several steps back, examining her work. ‘You look fabulous, but we have to do something about the hair.’
    Over the summer I’d let my usual wash-and-wear, ash-brown curls grow out. By September they’d reached the length where I could, with some effort, scrape them into a short ponytail. Amy sat me at the dressing table, and by some legerdemain, swept my hair up in wings over my ears, using a hairbrush to coax the ends into a mass of mini-sausages at the back of my head. She topped off the do with a soft, lacy mob cap. Examining myself in the mirror, I had to agree with Amy’s assessment: I looked fabulous – for a grandmother of three wearing no makeup.
    â€˜Where did you learn to do that?’ I asked.
    Her reflection shrugged. ‘I have a little sister. I used to do it for her. French braids, mostly. Sue married a Mormon and moved out to St George, Utah.’
    â€˜Whew!’ I said, patting my curls appreciatively. ‘I was afraid they’d want me to wear a wig.’
    â€˜For the ball, yes.’
    â€˜You think so?’
    She nodded. ‘For sure. I overheard Jud talking to Derek about setting up a shoot at the wigmakers.’
    â€˜As long as it’s not one of those mile-high creations with ribbons, feathers and live birds,’ I said.
    Amy grinned. ‘They come with fleas, too. For lice, you pay extra.’
    â€˜Euuuuw!’ I rolled my eyes. ‘Well, let’s hope the producers’ passion for historical accuracy doesn’t stretch that far.’
    For a house with a dozen (or so) residents, it surprised me that only five were at breakfast that morning. Alex Mueller, the dancing master, wouldn’t be joining us until later in the day, I learned, so it was just me at one end of the table and Jack at the other, with Melody and her brother sitting on the side facing the windows opposite Michael Rainey, their tutor. And the cameraman, of course. Derek (or was it Chad?) who was standing as inconspicuously as possible next to the buffet like a black, brooding potted plant, filming us as we ate breakfast.
    When I finally managed to arrange my skirts, underskirts and hoops in such a way that I could actually sit down in my chair, Jack offered a quick blessing of the ‘Oh, Lord we just . . .’ persuasion and I was about to open my mouth to say that we were supposed to be Anglican, thank you very much, saying graces from the
Book of Common Prayer
circa 1662 such as,
Give us grateful hearts, O Father, for all thy mercies, and make us mindful of the needs of others; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen
, when French appeared with the scrambled eggs, hominy, fried potatoes and onions – followed by, bless her, cups of rich, dark coffee that brightened my whole day. I hoped Amy and the others were eating just as well down in the kitchen.
    I was helping myself to another spoonful of eggs from a covered bowl when someone began knocking at the front door, the sound of the brass knocker echoing sharply through the house. A few minutes later, a man I hadn’t met before, dressed in a plain dark suit with gold braid, entered the dining room, carrying a silver tray. ‘No reply required, sir,’ the man said, holding the tray out in front of Jack. On the tray sat a piece of parchment-colored paper that from my vantage point, looked to be folded in fourths and sealed with a blob of red wax. Jack scooped up the message and said, ‘Thank you, Jeffrey. You may go.’
    While Jeffrey was busy bowing theatrically and