in
London and Edgar and Clara were invited to attend on the strength of Colonel
and Mrs. Brockville’s acquaintance.
She was grateful, certainly; it was efforts
such as this that would buoy them in the difficult times to come. However, she
had nothing to wear except the unlucky wedding gown.
Clara stared at the white crème glacé silk
and found she was still foolishly pleased with it. She would at the very least
have the satisfaction of getting some wear out of the thing. Clara examined it
for damage inflicted by Grace Leeds and could find none. Piers repaired a seam
in the skirt, but the tear could have happened when she climbed over the tree.
Clara assumed Grace had torn the dress but the further away she got from that
strange encounter, the more she began to wonder if she had imagined it.
To be sure the dress was not as smart as
the other ladies’ gowns would be but it was pretty and suited her well. Clara
stepped into the skirt and fitted it around her waist. She would have to manage
the bodice on her own. Her mother had not sent for her since hearing of the
wedding debacle; it was unlikely Portia would send Tilly to attend to her
daughter’s dress.
There was a light rap on her door.
“Come in.”
Tilly entered carrying a basket of ribbons
and hair ornaments. Clara was sure she spied an ostrich feather. Her face lit
up when Tilly set the basket on the dresser.
“What have you there?” Clara held out hope
that her mother had relented.
“I’ll not see you sent off with your hair
dressed any which way. I have pride in my work same as any lady’s maid would.
Your mother has her opinion of a just punishment and I have mine. If she wants
to bring you down a peg, let her do it—but not at my expense. Just think how
Lady Stanley’s servants’ll talk if they see you looking like you were drugged
through a hedge! It’s my neck what’s on the line. I might be looking for a new
place soon and you’re my best advertisement what with your mother taken to her
bed.”
“Why would you leave us, Tilly? You’ve been
with Mother for years and years!”
The woman dumped out the supplies and picked
through them. “Aye, I’ve been dressing your mother since she was your age. But
Mr. Hamilton’s troubles being what they are, I have my future to think of. Now
here’s a pretty comb. That’d be right smart with your colouring. Tut! You have barely a curl to catch
hold of. Sit down, miss. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Clara had not thought of the servants, of
where they would go when her father’s business collapsed. Her actions were seen
now in a new light as being utterly self-serving. If she had stayed at
Windemere, Branson could have been persuaded to honour his oath to her. He
would not now that she had left him.
“Miss Clara, you are a vision.” Tilly had
dressed Clara’s hair in tiny flowers and wove ribbons through her locks. “You
will be in demand for several dances, I wager.”
Clara tried to laugh. She was thinking there
was only one man she wished to dance with—Branson Hamilton. Her fickle,
treacherous heart leapt at the thought of him. He was not the man for her—her
intellect was sound on that score. But her heart recalled his possession of her
body and passion overpowered her reason. How could she be drawn to a man who
had manipulated her emotions for his own profit?
She hated him.
What he had done—what he had taken from her
when she was vulnerable—Clara despised him for it.
“Your hands are shaking, miss. Here, allow me.
You are not too old yet that I can’t help you dress.” Tilly relieved her of
fumbling with the buttons on her bodice and fastened them up in an instant. “There
now. Perfect. ‘Tis a lovely gown and you’re as pretty as a picture in it, Miss
Clara.”
“I wish I felt pretty as a picture. I am scared to death. I’ve been to few dances of late.
Edgar says he’ll look out for me but this will be my first appearance in public
since my collapse. To be honest,
London and Edgar and Clara were invited to attend on the strength of Colonel
and Mrs. Brockville’s acquaintance.
She was grateful, certainly; it was efforts
such as this that would buoy them in the difficult times to come. However, she
had nothing to wear except the unlucky wedding gown.
Clara stared at the white crème glacé silk
and found she was still foolishly pleased with it. She would at the very least
have the satisfaction of getting some wear out of the thing. Clara examined it
for damage inflicted by Grace Leeds and could find none. Piers repaired a seam
in the skirt, but the tear could have happened when she climbed over the tree.
Clara assumed Grace had torn the dress but the further away she got from that
strange encounter, the more she began to wonder if she had imagined it.
To be sure the dress was not as smart as
the other ladies’ gowns would be but it was pretty and suited her well. Clara
stepped into the skirt and fitted it around her waist. She would have to manage
the bodice on her own. Her mother had not sent for her since hearing of the
wedding debacle; it was unlikely Portia would send Tilly to attend to her
daughter’s dress.
There was a light rap on her door.
“Come in.”
Tilly entered carrying a basket of ribbons
and hair ornaments. Clara was sure she spied an ostrich feather. Her face lit
up when Tilly set the basket on the dresser.
“What have you there?” Clara held out hope
that her mother had relented.
“I’ll not see you sent off with your hair
dressed any which way. I have pride in my work same as any lady’s maid would.
Your mother has her opinion of a just punishment and I have mine. If she wants
to bring you down a peg, let her do it—but not at my expense. Just think how
Lady Stanley’s servants’ll talk if they see you looking like you were drugged
through a hedge! It’s my neck what’s on the line. I might be looking for a new
place soon and you’re my best advertisement what with your mother taken to her
bed.”
“Why would you leave us, Tilly? You’ve been
with Mother for years and years!”
The woman dumped out the supplies and picked
through them. “Aye, I’ve been dressing your mother since she was your age. But
Mr. Hamilton’s troubles being what they are, I have my future to think of. Now
here’s a pretty comb. That’d be right smart with your colouring. Tut! You have barely a curl to catch
hold of. Sit down, miss. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Clara had not thought of the servants, of
where they would go when her father’s business collapsed. Her actions were seen
now in a new light as being utterly self-serving. If she had stayed at
Windemere, Branson could have been persuaded to honour his oath to her. He
would not now that she had left him.
“Miss Clara, you are a vision.” Tilly had
dressed Clara’s hair in tiny flowers and wove ribbons through her locks. “You
will be in demand for several dances, I wager.”
Clara tried to laugh. She was thinking there
was only one man she wished to dance with—Branson Hamilton. Her fickle,
treacherous heart leapt at the thought of him. He was not the man for her—her
intellect was sound on that score. But her heart recalled his possession of her
body and passion overpowered her reason. How could she be drawn to a man who
had manipulated her emotions for his own profit?
She hated him.
What he had done—what he had taken from her
when she was vulnerable—Clara despised him for it.
“Your hands are shaking, miss. Here, allow me.
You are not too old yet that I can’t help you dress.” Tilly relieved her of
fumbling with the buttons on her bodice and fastened them up in an instant. “There
now. Perfect. ‘Tis a lovely gown and you’re as pretty as a picture in it, Miss
Clara.”
“I wish I felt pretty as a picture. I am scared to death. I’ve been to few dances of late.
Edgar says he’ll look out for me but this will be my first appearance in public
since my collapse. To be honest,
Similar Books
