The new hairstyle—whichconsisted primarily of some sort of odd paste and a plethora of ribbons wound around numerous strands braided into loops and secured with combs and pins—hurt. With every move of her head, something tugged or pulled, and the sensation of locks of hair struggling to escape from their bonds made Clara’s scalp itch. Or maybe it was that paste, which smelled of stale lavender. All of it added to the misery that started in her new and overly tight slippers and worked its way up through the constricted fit of the new gown.
The first ball under Wykeham’s auspices would commence in a few hours, and Clara’s dread grew with each moment. According to his list, his kit for the evening included a skirted frock coat in pale yellow silk and a canary yellow waistcoat with bronze-colored embroidery. A single row of bronze buttons closed the coat, which had matching silk velvet cuffs and lapels.
A color combination that made even Clara wince.
But Madame Adrienne had lived up to her promise, constructing Clara’s new frock from a deep coppery silk that would cause the duke’s bronze accents to shine when they stood next to each other. The color also seemed to tone down the fire in her hair, allowing the blonde highlights to appear more prominently. And although the gown had the low waistline, tight bodice, and puffeden gigotsleeves of the current style, Madame Adrienne had kept the sleeves even trimmer and the waist slightly lower, sitting just above Clara’s hips. Ignoring the trend of accent colors, Madame Adrienne had instead focused on thick embroidered vines in the same copper color on the cuffs and hem. The overall effect made her look taller and thinner than she truly was.
The snug fit, however, meant her stays had to be laced tighter, and Clara resisted the urge to cough as long as she could. Stays were meant to support comfortably, not make the wearer feel as if a boa constrictor had surrounded her. But without the extra pull, the laces on the new gown would not close.
Too much. A cough finally burst out of her, and she covered her mouth, apologizing from behind her palm.
Madame Adrienne, circling the fitting platform, paused. “Perhaps I should loosen—”
“No.” Observing from a chair a few feet away, Honora Durham stiffened. “No. The duke requested a slimmer profile. As I told you, the duke approved all your designs and their colors, but requested a tighter fit on all of them. She will learn to take more shallow breaths like the rest of us.”
“Thus the increasing need for swooning chaises in the retiring suites,” Madame Adrienne muttered.
This time the sound from Clara was more of a snort.
“Are we quite finished?”
Madame Adrienne turned to the countess. “Mais oui,your ladyship. I will make these last tucks myself and deliver the gown within the hour.” She raised her gaze to Clara’s hair. “I will include several matching ribbons your maid can use in your hair as well.” She ran a hand down the back of the gown and fluffed out the narrow train. “And the image will be complete. Your duke will not be disappointed.”
Clara doubted the truth in that statement but dared not speak her mind. The last two Tuesdays had brought encounters with Wykeham that had been as brief and harsh as the first one, focusing on the designs of the new gowns, the dancing master he had sent to Beckcott Hall—who now took up much of Clara’s afternoons—and news from his border estate. The duke had not asked her a single question, nor had she offered up much but the occasional sarcastic remark, which made him laugh, sometimes as if he were indulging a disobedient child. Overall, he spoke, she listened.
Clara stepped off the platform and retreated to a changing room, where Radcliff waited with uncharacteristic patience—and silence—to help her. In fact, Radcliff had grown increasingly wordless whenever they were out with Honora, and Clara wondered if her mother’s maid had said anything to the girl.
They did not partake in the usual post-modiste visit to Gunter’s Tea Room. Instead they returned to Beckcott Hall, where Honora ordered her daughter to skip luncheon in order to rest for the evening to come. The gown arrived just before tea, which Clara took in her room, and Radcliff managed to sneak two scones and a bit of clotted cream on to the tray. Delighted, Clara gave her maid a quick hug, embarrassing them both, but breaking the somber mood.
As Radcliff began reworking her hair with the new ribbons, Clara released a long sigh. “Mother is correct in one way.”
Radcliff did not respond.
“I do seem to act as if I am marching off to an execution.”
Her maid’s eyes gleamed. “A reasonable response, in my eyes.”
Clara smiled. “I suppose I should be thanking my heavenly stars, instead. The duke is considered quite a catch.”
“No fisherman I know keeps every fish he reels in, my lady. Especially the ones who are not quite the catch they appear to be.”
“You are a wicked influence, Radcliff.”
“So I have been told.”
As I thought!Clara’s eyes met Radcliff’s in the mirror. “Who has scolded you thus?”
The young girl shrugged.
“My mother’s maid.”
Another shrug. “She is my superior.”
Clara glowered. “I know we have had our problems, but I prefer us to work those out between us. You may want to keep silent in my mother’s presence, but not in mine. If I do not like what you say, I will tell you so.”
“She tells me there are rules—”
“And you will learn them. But there are rules and there is what goes on between a lady and her maid. That side is private. Between them. Follow the rules where the house is concerned. Where I am concerned, you should listen only to me.”
