Nathaniel could not remember when he had enjoyed a visit more. By the time he departed charming Lime Tree Lodge a few hours later, he had determined to stay in contact with Mr. Macy. And to court his beautiful daughter.
After Easter the following spring, Nathaniel and Helen packed up and moved to London for the social season. They believed their brother Lewis would not be joining them that year. He had sailed to the West Indies at their father’s behest the previous summer. James Upchurch found it expedient to live in Barbados the majority of the time for the management of his affairs. He had summoned his elder son to join him there, hoping to detach him from unsavory connections at home.
At the first ball of the new season, Nathaniel saw Miss Macy and immediately requested a dance. She happily agreed, and the two began a courtship that lasted for many weeks. She seemed to enjoy his company, allowed him to escort her in to supper, and received him with pleasure when he paid the requisite call the next morning. All seemed to be going swimmingly.
But then Lewis returned.
———
Nathaniel slid the watercolor back into the book and closed it with a snap. He had no wish to think about what had happened after that.
In 1770, a British law was proposed to
Parliament granting grounds for annulment if a
bride used cosmetics prior to her wedding day.
—Marjorie Dorfman, “The History of Make-up”
Chapter 14
In Helen Upchurch’s room a few days later, Margaret lifted the lid from a partially used jar of cold cream pomatum and inspected its contents. The cream had an unusual greyish cast. She took a tentative sniff and jerked her head back. Rancid. How long had it been since Helen had any new cosmetics? No wonder she used the soap made right there in the Fairbourne Hall stillroom, drying to a lady’s complexion though it was.
Hester would know what to do. Margaret let herself from the room and down the back stairs.
Margaret had tinkered with homemade cosmetics as a girl, when she had been in a hurry to grow up even though her mother had deemed her too young for cosmetics. In the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge the indulgent Mrs. Haines had allowed her to mix a little vegetable rouge tinted with red carmine. Also a little pot of lip color made of wax, almond oil, and alkanet. She had helped Mrs. Haines prepare pearl water to help Margaret combat the blemishes of youth, and a chamomile hair rinse to brighten her blond hair.
Of course, all this had been years ago, and she did not recall the ingredients or mode. After Margaret’s coming out, her mother had approved a few prepared cosmetics, purchased from an apothecary or modiste. So much easier and packaged so prettily: Rose Lip Salve, Pear’s Liquid Blooms of Roses, and Gowland’s Lotion. But Margaret believed that with a bit of help, she could manage cold cream pomatum and perhaps an oil of rosemary hair tonic for Miss Helen as well. She wondered if she might sneak a bit of walnut juice into the tonic to gently cover Miss Helen’s greying strands. Her mother’s maid used just such a concoction to keep grey at bay.
Thinking of hair color, Margaret wondered, not for the first time, if she ought to forgo the wig altogether and dye her hair instead. Once done, her day to day life would certainly be easier and more comfortable. Her risk of discovery so much decreased. But for every advertisement in the London newspapers touting the various nostrums available for darkening one’s hair or returning it to the glossy shades of youth, there were also warnings about the ill effects of their ingredients—salts of iron or carbonates of lead.
Even without such warnings, Margaret would be loath to dye her hair. It seemed so extreme, so permanent. What if her hair never returned to the fair color she prized? She needed to remain brunette for only a few months, a fortnight of which had passed already. She decided she could put up with the wig a little longer.
When she reached the stillroom, Hester greeted her with her usual cheer. “Hello, love.”
“Hello, Hester. The mistress’s cold cream pomatum has gone rancid. Help me make more?”
“With pleasure. Why, I can’t remember the last time we mixed up somethin’ for Miss Upchurch. Long overdue on other things too, I’d wager.”
Hester pulled down a thick green leather volume from one of the shelves. “It’s been so long, I’d best check the measures....” She flipped the creased, oil-stained pages.
“Here we are. One ounce oil of sweet almonds, half a drachm each of white wax and spermaceti, with a little balm.”
Hester began bustling about the stillroom, opening drawers and reaching up to shelves to gather tools and ingredients. She instructed Margaret to melt the almond oil, wax, and whale oil in a glazed pipkin over hot ashes in the hearth. Margaret did so. Then she poured the mixture into a marble mortar. Hester handed her a pestle, and with it, Margaret pressed and stirred the cream until it was smooth and cool.
“Orange flower or rose water, do you think?” Hester asked.
She recalled Helen relishing the scent of the roses she’d put in her room. “Rose, if you have it.”
“Indeed I do.”
While Margaret continued to stir, Hester drizzled in rose water for fragrance.
Hester returned to her book and read, “ ‘This cold cream pomatum renders the skin at once supple and smooth. If not meant for immediate use, the gallipot in which it is kept should have a piece of bladder tied over it.’ ”
Margaret knew apothecaries tied wet pig bladders over their pots of ointments and nostrums, because as the bladders dried they shrunk, forming an airtight seal. Margaret quailed. She didn’t relish the thought of touching pig parts.
“I’d like Miss Helen to be able to use it right away.”
