But any semblance of tranquility was merely an optical illusion.
The chamber was a quiet flurry of activity as preparations for the afternoon’s outing to Egyptian Hall reached their peak. Ribbons were unfurled across the bed, and silk slippers lined up for inspection. Abigail sat poised at her vanity, her spine straight but her mind far less composed than her posture suggested.
Her thoughts raced, skipping from Arthur’s lingering glance during their last conversation, to the vague unease in her chest at the idea of being paraded through yet another public outing under the guise of a courtship that—at least in theory—meant nothing.
Lydia, standing just behind her with a patient, practiced air, lifted another section of Abigail’s dark chestnut hair and began to wind it into a soft coil. Her fingers moved with deft precision, anchoring the twist with a discreet pin.
“Are you quite certain about the green muslin, miss?” she asked quietly, her eyes bright with enthusiasm as she held it up to the window to catch the light. She glanced at Abigail’s reflection in the mirror. “The lavender taffeta would bring out the colour in your eyes.”
Abigail smiled faintly, though her mind was far from fabrics. “No… the green, I think. It’s the same I wore to Lady Ainsworth’s garden breakfast last spring.”
“Ah,” Lydia murmured, smoothing a curl into place. “A favourite, then.”
“Familiar,” Abigail said, then after a pause, “safe.”
Lydia arched a brow, but did not press further. She knew when her mistress wanted to speak—and when she did not.
A few moments passed in companionable silence, broken only by the faint clink of silver hairpins being set aside. Abigail’s fingers toyed with the edge of her vanity cloth. She felt the tension building, not unlike the tightness of her corset being pulled just a fraction too snug.
“Do you think I’m mad, Lydia?” she asked at last, her voice low.
The maid paused mid-motion, then resumed her work with studied calm. “That would depend, miss. Mad for trusting a Viscount? Or mad for trusting yourself?”
Abigail let out a soft breath. “Both, mayhap.”
Lydia met her gaze in the mirror again, her eyes steady. “You’ve always trusted your own judgment, miss. You’re sharper than any young lady I’ve ever seen cross this threshold. If you’re worried, it means you’re thinking. And I reckon that’s far more dangerous than being mad.”
That drew a reluctant smile from Abigail. “You ought to be a philosopher.”
“I’ll settle for a lady’s maid with an opinion,” Lydia said with a hint of mischief, tucking a final curl into place. Her cheeks reddened ever so slightly. “If I may be so bold, miss, Lord Beaumont will be very taken with you.”
Abigail glanced toward the dress, freshly pressed and laid out across her bed, its fabric shimmering subtly in the sunlight. “Thank you, Lydia. You always say the right things.”
Lydia smiled, pleased. “You do flatter me, miss, but I shall admit I take great pride in dressing you for Lord Beaumont’s eyes—if I may say so. He seems a fine gentleman. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, miss. It’s rather lovely.”
Abigail laughed gently, concealing the flutter in her chest at the mention of Arthur’s name. “You may say so, but be careful. One might almost suspect you of romance. It’s important we don’t seem to try too hard.”
Lydia’s brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “Beg your pardon, miss?”
“Nothing, Lydia. Merely a reminder to myself,” Abigail replied quickly, her eyes dropping momentarily from her own reflection.
Abigail felt a pang of affection for the young maid’s sincerity and allowed the moment of light-heartedness to linger. Lydia’s warmth and candor had become indispensable to her, especially now, when so much in her life felt uncertain.
“Now, let’s talk about gloves. Cream or dove-grey?”
“Cream,” Abigail replied, rising to her feet. “And perhaps the pearl-drop earrings, if they’re still in the drawer.”
“They are,” Lydia confirmed, already moving to retrieve them. “And the reticule?”
Abigail glanced at the heap of belongings neatly arranged atop the chaise. “The green beaded one, I think.”
“Yes, miss.” Lydia handed her the tiny bag with a respectful nod. “You shall impress, if I may say so. Miss Eliza and Lord Beaumont won’t find a single thing amiss.”
She turned toward the mirror once more, this time studying herself with a more critical eye. The soft green muslin flattered her complexion. Her hair was arranged with elegant simplicity. Her gloves, fan, and reticule were all perfectly coordinated.
She looked every inch the lady embarking on a well-formed courtship. Lydia had worked her usual magic—the delicate sweep of her curls, the elegant simplicity of the gown’s neckline, and the subtle gleam of pearl earrings borrowed from her mother’s collection. It was a careful balance of effortless charm and restrained elegance, entirely suitable for the outing.
And yet, the reflection looking back at her felt like both herself and a stranger.
