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‘Bessie, that is unfair. If you had seen how contrite and sorry he was...’
‘Sorry butters no parsnips.’
Sophie, standing in her petticoat waiting for her blue gown to be put over her head, could not even smile at this. She had had such high hopes when she left Hadlea, as excited as a schoolgirl. She was going to have a Season, to be the belle of all the balls, to find a loving husband who fulfilled all her criteria. How foolish she had been! How much the child. She had done a great deal of growing up in the short time since she’d left home. She was no longer the child; her illusions had been shattered by reality. Love, real love, found its own way and sometimes it was not returned. Hearts could not be dictated to.
The gown slipped down over her shapely figure and fell in soft folds to her feet. It seemed an age since she had been boasting of it to Cassie. It didn’t seem to matter anymore. Life was not about expensive gowns and fripperies; life was what you made of it and she had made a mull of everything. If she could go back in time to the beginning of May, would she still plead to be brought to London? If she had not come, would she still have met Viscount Kimberley? Would she now be breaking her heart over him?
‘It looks lovely.’ Bessie’s voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘Jane has done a superb job, but you really must try to look a little more cheerful. Anyone would think you were going to a funeral, not a ball.’
Sophie turned towards the mirror and studied her reflection. Her cheeks were devoid of colour and her eyes had lost their brightness. Even her hair looked dull. But the dress was lovely. It had a boat-shaped neckline and puffed sleeves. A fichu of the paler blue lace was intended to fill in the neckline that would otherwise leave her shoulders bare. The bodice fitted her exactly. The skirt, falling from a high waist, was tiered, each tier threaded with silver ribbon. The hem was looped up with more ribbon and revealed an underskirt of the same pale lace as the fichu.
‘Sophie, you must pull yourself together if you are going to pull this off tonight,’ Bessie said, taking a hairbrush and pulling it through Sophie’s tresses.
‘Pull what off?’
‘Outshining the other young ladies.’
‘Am I meant to do that?’
‘Yes. You have to convince everyone there is nothing wrong, that you are as bright and sparkling as you have always been. For your pride’s sake, if nothing else.’ She finished coiling Sophie’s hair into ringlets and began threading it with silver ribbon to match the dress. ‘Otherwise you might as well be wearing white and hiding yourself behind your aunt, waiting for someone to take pity on you.’
‘I don’t want anyone’s pity.’ It was said with some feeling, but she remembered Jane cautioning her about too much pride. Had she brought this misery on herself, laying down her requirements for a husband? And then behaving like a hoyden because she didn’t want anyone to know how unsure of herself she felt?
‘No, I didn’t think you did. Shall we try a little make-up, just to put some colour in your cheeks? Pinching them will not be enough.’
‘Very well, but please, not too much.’
By the time Bessie had finished, Sophie was looking more her old self. ‘There! That’s not too much, is it?’
‘No. You are very clever.’
‘I have sometimes needed to help your mother in that way.’
‘But you have spilled a little powder on the lace.’ She pulled the fichu off and examined it. Brushing it with her hand only made it worse.
Bessie took it from her. ‘Oh, dear, you should have worn a cape. I’ll try to clean it off.’
‘No, don’t bother. If I am going to shock everyone I might as well do it properly.’
‘Sophie!’
‘It was you who said I had to sparkle.’
‘I didn’t mean... Oh, well, your necklace will fill in the neck a little, and you can pull the sleeves up onto your shoulders.’
The necklace, that was it! She touched it as Bessie fastened it round her neck. Mark would never give Jane paste jewels, so it might be worth something. She could sell it and repay the viscount and there would be no need to marry any of her erstwhile suitors. She suddenly felt much more cheerful. And if Teddy turned up safe and well, everything would come about. Except for her love for Viscount Kimberley. She would have to remove her heart from her sleeve and bury it away from sight.
She slipped into her shoes, donned a fine silk shawl and hung her reticule on her wrist. ‘I am ready,’ she said, and went down to join her aunt, who was clad in burgundy satin and a matching turban, to wait for the carriage to be brought round.
