Chapter 6 #2
Thankfully, Tess was still in my bedchamber, because I wasn’t sanguine about my ability to tame Ophelia’s hair—or my own, for that matter. Even as successive governesses stormed away in a huff, my father had managed to keep a personal maid for myself and Rosie.
“Ophelia, may I introduce you to my maid, Tess? The household knows her as Hughes, but I consider myself lucky to count her as a friend.”
“Good evening, Miss Burnsby,” Tess said, her eyes widening as she took in the tousled hair, battered boots, and dingy gown—especially around the waist, where Peony had snuggled.
“You could call me Ophelia, if you’d like,” the girl offered.
Tess gave her a warm smile. “Hello, Ophelia. They tell me in the kitchens that you’re one of the few people courageous enough to enter the library.”
Godric cleared his throat. “My chamber is next door, if you would like me to escort you both to the drawing room. As an ally,” he added, meeting my eyes.
“Crumpsall gave him the room that my father used to occupy until he moved into the second courtyard,” Ophelia reported.
“We can make our own way to the drawing room, but may I beg you to return Peony to the kitchens?” I said to Godric, holding out her leash. “After which, please inform Crumpsall and Lord Burnsby that Ophelia and I will be tardy. You can have a ‘drinky-poo’ with the other guests.”
He gave me one of his impatient frowns, muttering, “God save me.” But he took the leash. “Come along.” Peony snuffled his ankle and obeyed.
Once we had the room to ourselves, I unbuttoned my mantle and threw it off. “Would it be acceptable if Tess brushed your hair?”
Ophelia seemed transfixed by my gown, but she nodded.
“How would you feel about changing your frock, perhaps into one of a different color? I’m afraid Peony left some dust in her wake.”
“All my gowns are white, except the black dress that I wore to Alice’s funeral. My father said it turned me into a bony crow. Besides, I’ve grown, and the hem would be above my ankles.”
I couldn’t wait to inform Burnsby that he resembled a bony crow in his kilt.
“A crow?” Tess snorted. “Nonsense. The servants described you as a bonny lass, and they are right. Your mother must have been a beauty, because you didn’t inherit that profile from your father.
Let’s brush your hair and then see how you feel about changing your gown.
” She guided Ophelia into one of the armchairs by the fire.
I seated myself in the other armchair as Tess picked up her hairbrush.
“I have a portrait of Hecuba under my bed that I can show you,” Ophelia offered.
“Why have you hidden your mother’s portrait under the bed?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“And why haven’t you a maid of your own?” Tess inquired.
“My father probably thinks I still have a nanny. There are so many people in the abbey that Crumpsall has trouble keeping track of them.”
I was certain that Burnsby knew Ophelia had neither nanny nor maid, but I held my tongue. I wouldn’t describe the abbey itself as soulless or malign, but Burnsby’s treatment of his daughter and his servants?
Oh, and his treatment of me and his other wives?
Diabolical.
(Lead villain? Godric had lost the role, but Burnsby? Check!)
“Tomorrow, we shall find you a personal maid, move you from the nursery, and hang your mother’s portrait on the wall of your new bedroom,” I announced.
(Remember when I described Sophonisba opening the tournament by throwing down a handkerchief? I just accepted the challenge.)
“In the morning, the household seamstress will begin working on a proper wardrobe for a young lady,” I continued. “That will do until we return to London and visit a proper modiste.”
Ophelia blinked at me.
“You can’t do better than to model yourself on Genevieve,” Tess said, grinning. “She’s brave and decisive.”
“Why don’t I read aloud from Les Liaisons Dangereuses?” I asked, feeling myself turn a little pink.
“It’s not in English,” Ophelia said, craning her neck backward to look up at my maid.
“I was trained to be a French maid, so I understand the language,” Tess said, picking up her scissors. “Your hair is lovely, Ophelia. Like black silk, and that’s the truth. I’ll snip a bit around your face.”
“Please forgive my accent,” I said. “I’ll begin with the first letter.” (Liaisons is an epistolary novel.)
Two sentences later, Ophelia held out her hand and took over reading; my attempts were as terrible as I had imagined.
Sometime later Tess’s brush suspended in midair. “That evil woman is directing a man to seduce a young lady just for the fun of it!”
“Isn’t it awful?” Ophelia said, with relish. “Cecilia is awkward and unpolished. She just turned fifteen, not much older than me.”
Might the fictional Cecilia explain why Ophelia loved the novel so much? Yet if people modeled their behavior on literary works, Ophelia would be at risk of throwing herself into a brook, à la her Shakespearean counterpart.
I hadn’t known her for long, but she was bursting with resentment and energy, not melancholy. She would have countered Hamlet’s nasty comments with a rapier thrust.
“No lady leaves my hands unpolished,” Tess stated after Ophelia had read aloud a few more letters. She held up a mirror. Adorable wisps framed Ophelia’s face. Some of her hair was braided back, entwined with a silk ribbon, and the rest fell in shining locks over her shoulders.
Ophelia drew in a delighted breath. “I’m not myself!”
“Yes, you are,” I told her. “You are beautiful.”
“But what about my eyebrows? My fath— Lord Burnsby said they were caterpillars crawling across my forehead.”
“Burnsby is wrong.” I dipped the tip of my forefinger in the oil Tess used to highlight my cheekbones and sleeked her eyebrows. “No charcoal for you. See?”
Ophelia touched her brows wonderingly.
“Genevieve’s green evening dress would be flattering on you,” Tess said, darting over to my trunk and taking out the gown. “It’s not terribly creased. I can pin it now and alter it tomorrow.”
“Is the front as low as Sophonisba’s gowns?” Ophelia asked.
Tess shook her head as she brought the girl to her feet and began unbuttoning her gown. “You’d think the woman would take a chill from displaying so much flesh.”
“You could wear a cravat like mine,” I suggested.
“Aren’t cravats for men?”
“Piglets and cravats are the newest fashions for ladies,” I told her.
Ophelia chortled with laughter. “I don’t believe you! I think you’re a fibber.”
She wasn’t wrong. No gentlewoman gets through the day without offering at least four to five fibs. Since marrying Burnsby, lying had become my main form of communication. Yes, canary-yellow pantaloons are flattering. For example.
But no more.
Lord Burnsby was about to find his married life a good deal less comfortable and his wife a good deal less complimentary. In fact, not complimentary at all. Not even polite, and certainly not obedient.
(The tournament was open; he would have to accept the consequences.)
“It flatters you,” I remarked, as satin settled around Ophelia’s feet.
“The cut is too young for a married lady,” Tess said dampeningly. “Lord Burnsby’s eyes remind me of gooseberries, but yours are a beautiful greenish-blue, Ophelia. This sea-green color flatters your hair and eyes.”
Gooseberries?
Tess had come into my life after a London employment agency had been instructed to supply a femme de chambre for the new Lady Burnsby. Had she been my personal maid before I married, she would have pointed out Burnsby’s gooseberry eyes, among other attributes, and I might not have married him.
No, I would have.
Rosie had her dowry, and, despite my humiliation, that was all that mattered.
Tess held up a scarf. “A perfect lady’s cravat.” A moment later, cashmere frothed down Ophelia’s bodice, covering her chest.
“You are exquisite,” I told her.
“Not compared to you,” Ophelia said bluntly. “When you took off your cloak, I thought you resembled a princess in a storybook. Why on earth did you marry my father?”
“Marrying him seemed like my best option,” I said lamely. Perhaps I would tell her about Rosie’s dowry—but not until her father had given her a dowry.
“Look at you!” Ophelia pointed at the mirror. “Sophonisba has a subscription to The Gallery of Fashion, and you look just like one of their illustrations. She will be jealous. Even if she went to a French modiste, she could never match you.”
“The lady is a good deal older than Genevieve,” Tess pointed out. “Well into her sixties, I suspect.”
“Sophonisba says that women don’t have birthdays.”
“Don’t forget that my eyebrows are drawn in charcoal,” I put in. “My cheekbones stand out because Tess oils them, and I’m wearing peony lip color in honor of my piglet.”
“I’d like to wear the same color,” Ophelia said. “I adore Peony.”
“Lighter pink for you,” Tess declared, dabbing color on her bottom lip. “Try on these slippers.”
“According to my mother’s portrait, she didn’t have my eyebrows,” Ophelia said, standing in front of the glass again. “My last governess wanted to pluck them out.”
I shuddered. “I’ll be your shield against eyebrow haters, and you’ll be mine against the rest of the world.” I tucked my hand into her arm.
“I can do that,” Ophelia promised. “We’ll stay close to Godric. Sophonisba is terrified of him.”
I could believe that.
Snap! Snap! Snap!