Constraints of Fashion
Gideon had nearly kissed her.
Beatrice had not imagined that.
She stood just inside her bedchamber, though she could not have said for how long. The familiar furnishings blurred—the writing desk, the chair near the window, the gown she had shed and then tossed onto the ottoman—none of it mattered.
Gideon Rothmore had nearly kissed her.
It hadn’t mattered that they’d been standing on a busy street. It hadn’t mattered that they’d known one another for years. Or that Dash was her brother.
The memory came back with startling clarity.
His hand on her waist. The way his voice had lowered… changed. The look in his eyes—as though nothing else in the world existed but the two of them.
There had simply been that heavy wanting. A feeling so tangled up between them that it was as if they had briefly shared the same mind.
But then—
Beatrice hugged her arms to her chest and squeezed.
Mr. Groby was worse than she’d imagined. Self-satisfied, gloating in a way that implied some sort of sadistic pleasure, both in his goading of Gideon and also in… Lady Hannah’s final fate.
And after he got Groby to go away… Gideon had looked almost angry.
He’d placed her in a hackney with brisk efficiency, offering some vague remark about her needing to return home, about plans to be made, about seeing her later for their lesson.
He had not met her eyes. “I have kept you long enough already…”
As though that had been the reason. As though he hadn’t nearly kissed her.
She pressed her lips together.
What would have happened if they had not been interrupted?
A soft knock put an end to her thoughts.
Beatrice crossed the room and opened the door, expecting a maid or perhaps Mrs. Whitby with some new objection to the mattresses in the ballroom.
Instead, Lady Persephone stood on the other side.
Beatrice blinked. “Lady Persephone?”
“I know I’m early.” Persephone’s expression turned immediately apologetic.
“Mr. Drake said I might wait in the drawing room, but then I told him the matter was personal. Very personal. Feminine, even. And I have never seen a butler so eager to place a lady in another lady’s hands. He directed me here at once.”
None of which explained why she was here at this time. But then she shifted, revealing the bundle in her arms.
Gentleman’s breeches. And a linen shirt.
Exactly what Beatrice had suggested when they’d settled the details for the lessons. Only, judging by the doubtful expressions around the room at the time, she had not believed any of the ladies would actually take her up on it.
“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” Persephone continued, lifting the garments sheepishly. “I managed to procure these, but I confess, I’m confused as to how I should go about putting them on.”
Beatrice’s gaze moved over her unexpected guest briefly—the tidy gown, the careful posture, the bright intelligence in her eyes, and yes, the scarring that licked down her neck before disappearing beneath her collar.
Looking utterly baffled, Persephone added, “How do they fit over my undergarments?”
That did it.
The corner of Beatrice’s mouth lifted.
“They don’t,” she said, stepping back to let Persephone in. “It’s good that you’ve come. We’ll have you sorted before anyone else gets here.”
Persephone slipped inside with visible relief while Beatrice shut the door and turned back to her.
“Set those down wherever you like,” she said, her smile warming. “And truly, don’t look so worried. Once you’ve worn breeches, you’ll understand why gentlemen have been so determined to keep them to themselves.”
Persephone let out a small, uncertain laugh. “Is that so?”
“They require no maid, no pins, and—most blessedly—no patience.” Beatrice reached for the borrowed shirt, then paused. “But first, we must get you out of all this.”
Persephone glanced down at her gown. “All of it?”
“The gown, the chemise, and the stays. Breeches are wonderfully simple, but they do not cooperate with half a lady’s wardrobe beneath them.”
Persephone gave a small laugh and turned obediently.
Beatrice began unlacing her gown with brisk efficiency. The fabric loosened, the sleeves slipped down, and a moment later the gown pooled at Persephone’s feet.
And Beatrice saw.
Not merely the pale mark at Persephone’s neck, but the fuller truth of it—scarring that swept over one shoulder, down along her chest, and disappeared around her back.
Beatrice paused only a second.
“I was five,” Persephone said, with a lightness that could not quite disguise an old ache. “I crept into the kitchens for pudding and pulled half a pot of it down upon myself. My mother has always maintained it was God’s way of correcting a greedy child.”
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “Your mother is wrong.”
The words escaped before Beatrice could soften them.
Persephone blinked but kept her gaze focused on the floor.
Beatrice lifted a shoulder. “It seems an extraordinarily severe punishment for wanting pudding.”
After a moment, Persephone looked up at her. Then, quietly, she smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it does.”
Beatrice's gaze drifted once more over the pale ridges of scar tissue. “Is it still painful?”
“Sometimes. Certain places sting when the weather changes. And some of it feels tight, particularly when I stretch.” Persephone touched her shoulder absently. “But most of it is simply… numb. Rather odd, really. To know one ought to feel something and not.”
Beatrice nodded as she reached for the borrowed shirt.
Stinging. Tight. Numb.
Yes. She knew something of that.
Not where anyone could see. But she knew what it was to have pain live quietly inside the body. To have it go silent for days, even weeks, until some careless thing reached in and woke it.
And she knew, too, what it was to be told—by a mother, no less—that the wound had somehow been earned.
Her fingers stilled for only a moment before she eased the shirt over Persephone’s injured arm with greater care.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I think I understand.”
Beatrice tugged the sleeves into place, grateful for something practical to do. “Now the other arm. Yes—like that.”
There was a moment of quiet as Persephone obeyed, her movements careful, surprisingly graceful.
The linen settled over her shoulders. She looked down at herself, almost startled.
“Calliope says she’s nervous about the lessons,” she admitted.
“She needn’t be. Are you?”
“Not at all.” Persephone smoothed one hand over the shirtfront, her mouth curving faintly. “I am…” She glanced up, and there was something brighter in her expression than Beatrice had seen before. “I think I’m excited.”
Beatrice paused. “Are you?”
“Mmm. Have you ever read Mary Wollstonecraft?”
Beatrice paused with the breeches in hand. “I've heard of her. My mother never permitted her books in the house.”
Persephone stepped into the breeches, one hand resting lightly on Beatrice’s shoulder for balance.
“She argues that women are made to feel weak intentionally. Taught helplessness, even praised for it.” She lifted her other foot to step in.
“And then? They are blamed when helplessness fails to protect them.”
“Blamed for their helplessness?” Beatrice drew the breeches up around Persephone’s waist, only to discover nearly a hand’s length of extra fabric. “We need to cinch these.”
Persephone clutched the waist, keeping the breeches from falling while Beatrice located a scarf.
“Yes. Blamed! A lady is told to be trusting, obedient, ignorant of danger. Then, if danger finds her, everyone asks why she did not know better. Why she went there. Why she spoke to him. Why she did not stop it.”
Beatrice said nothing as she wound the scarf over the falls and secured a knot.
“It has been years since I read her book,” Persephone said quietly. “But what you said at the meeting made me remember it. The idea that women are not helpless by nature. That we are only made to believe we are.”
Her mouth twisted faintly.
“I suppose I had forgotten how angry that made me.”
Beatrice’s fingers slowed on the fabric.
“That we are taught to doubt ourselves,” Persephone said. “It’s criminal, really. Ouch—that’s a little tight.”
“Sorry.” Beatrice loosened the scarf and tied it again with greater care.
“Anyway, that’s what I keep thinking about,” Persephone said. “That we need to unlearn that helplessness.”
The words sparked something in Beatrice.
“Not for myself, mind you.” Persephone grimaced a little. “Disregarding that one unfortunate incident, gentlemen do not trouble themselves with me,” Persephone said as she stepped back. “Not in that way.”
There was no bitterness in it. Only a plain accounting of what she believed to be true.
“But my sister is often noticed,” she continued. “She is lovely, and trusting, and far too ready to think well of everyone. I want her to know when to trust—and what to do if she has trusted wrongly.”
Beatrice smoothed the fabric once more, though there was no need. Then she stepped back.
“She will,” she said. “You both will. That’s precisely why we are doing this.”
Persephone went very still, her gaze lifting to Beatrice’s face. A moment passed.
Then, quietly, she asked, “Did you… trust wrongly? Is that why you are doing this?”
Beatrice’s first thought was to deny it. But… then she swallowed. And grimaced. “Yes,” she said. “Something like that.”
Persephone turned toward the mirror, considering the borrowed clothes, and then glanced back at her. “I thought there must be something more.”
Beatrice stilled. “More?”
“To you,” Persephone said simply. “To all of this. I could not quite decide what made you so brave.”
Brave?
The other woman tilted her head. “There is something rather remarkable about you, Lady Beatrice. I only wanted to thank you for allowing me to take part.”
Beatrice, who was quite unaccustomed to compliments of such a personal nature, found herself without a sensible reply.
So she tugged at the scarf around her own waist, then gave a small nod. “Yes, well. We shall see how grateful you remain after the first fall.” She glanced up, her lips tugging into small grin despite herself.. “And perhaps… just Beatrice. If you like.”
Persephone’s smile warmed. “Then you must call me Persephone. Or Percy, if we are being very daring.”
“Percy,” Beatrice repeated, testing the name.
She cleared her throat and turned toward the door. “And now we ought to go down. It’s early yet, but I have some organizing to do in the practice room.”
“You mean the ballroom?" Persephone asked.
“Not today, Percy. Not today,” Beatrice corrected.
A faint spark lit Persephone’s eyes. “Of course.”
Beatrice reached for the door. “Shall we?”
A few minutes later, they were in the ballroom, dragging mattresses into place across the polished floor.
She had already determined earlier that her initial setup would not be sufficient for the number of people Gideon would now be training.
Mr. Drake had looked rather resigned this time when she’d requested even more mattresses.
“There,” Beatrice said, brushing her hands together after they’d hauled the last one into position. “That should do.”
Persephone straightened, a little breathless but smiling. “I will admit, this is considerably easier than moving furniture in skirts.”
“Nearly everything is easier without skirts,” Beatrice said.
They shared a quick look of understanding—one of those small, unexpected moments that made the whole mad scheme feel less impossible.
Then a sound came from the doorway.
Beatrice turned.
And there Gideon stood. Perfectly composed. Perfectly proper.