By The Sea, Book One: Tess by Antoinette Stockenberg

breathlessly.
    It was that way everywhere in Newport:
absurd stories of Americans running amok all over Europe, not
knowing what to buy first. Americans had money to burn; the number
of millionaires who summered in Newport was staggering. What
Americans did not have, and seemed to crave, was lineage.
Those who could, bought their way into titled families. But those
who could not, settled for aping the ways of the British
aristocracy. Mr. Pearson, tonight's host, had reproduced, down to
his snuff-box, the life and times of English country gentry. His
liveried servants were powdered, of course; but in Newport that was
not unusual.
    What was uncommon, even in Newport,
was the ferocious zeal with which Mr. Pearson mimicked the ways of
a British sportsman. Hunting was his great passion. When the local
farmers arose en masse to protest the fox hunts that were being
routed across their fields, Mr. Pearson, alone among his peers,
actually paid them for their inconvenience, thereby single-handedly
keeping a doomed tradition limping along for several more
years.
    After that he turned to game-shooting,
stocking the grounds of his estate with hand-raised pheasants. The
birds were so tame that there was no sport involved, but he shot
them anyway. Once he fired off a round at what turned out to be a
gaily-feathered hat, still on the head of one of his female guests;
word quickly went out that it was unwise to wander far from the
main house. These days, however, Mr. Pearson was confined to his
study and a soft hassock: he was afflicted with gout. Secretly he
was pleased. It felt so very British to wave a cane and bark at the
servants.
    All of this amused Miss Van de Stadt's
viscount-fiancé no end; imitation, after all, was the sincerest
form of flattery. Of course, the viscount's stables back in
Derbyshire did not have stained-glass windows at either end, or a
gold nametag above each horses stall as did Mr. Pearson's. If the
truth were known, his stables were a bit down in the mouth,
and the roof at the south end of one had all but collapsed. But no
matter. The viscount had long since been forced to sell what little
horseflesh he possessed and had no need for a stable roof, good or
bad. In the course of dinner that evening, however, it was not the
condition of the viscount's stables that was the subject of a few
moments of dinner conversation, but the number of stalls. Of these,
the viscount had thirty-eight. There was a murmur of approval
around him before the conversation drifted off to another
topic.

Chapter 6
     
    Sarah was in a huff. "That was the weakest tea," she said as she and the other maids piled back
into their coach two hours later en route to their next, even
grander destination. "I do believe their housekeeper ran that pot
through twice. I never!"
    "She's probably served tea to every lady's
maid in Newport by this time of year," Tess said with a laugh. "I
shouldn't wonder that she tries to cut back when she can."
    "And her apartments! So plain, so unadorned.
Even your Mrs. Bracken has a nicer table to set, Tess."
    Tess and Livia exchanged looks; no one could
manage condescension as well as Sarah. "How kind of you to notice,"
said Tess dryly.
    Before long they were in a line of carriages
waiting their turn to empty, and the maids within had gathered up
their needlepoint satchels filled with combs and hairpins, needles
and thread—well-thought-out survival kits for the harrowing moments
before a ball. Their carriage had not quite reached their
destination when the door was opened by a footman wearing pale blue
Van de Stadt livery. The first two maids tumbled out quickly, but
when it was Tess's turn to alight, a freakish accident occurred.
The right mare, new to harness, reared up suddenly, causing the
coach to roll back and Tess to lose her balance; she fell awkwardly
to the ground, twisting her ankle.
    "Tess! Are you all right?" asked Livia,
helping her to her feet.
    Tess wasn't all right, but she lied, forcing
a smile