“Buried. In the forest.”
He looked at her sideways.
“Your dress is very clean for the fact you have been digging in the woods.”
“I was careful.”
“Forgive me if I do not believe you.”
Halverton strode to the wardrobe and flung the doors open, pushing dresses aside, looking for evidence she was lying. She held her breath, but he did not notice her dress hidden amongst the undergarments. He proceeded to check every piece of furniture. When he arrived at the vanity, she clenched her fists at her side to fight the urge to stop him. He opened the main drawer first, moving things aside and reaching inside to check every corner. It was clear he did not know about the secret drawer, but it was entirely possible he would find it by accident.
Aoife grew lightheaded as he explored the sides of the drawer, only allowing herself to breathe again when he slid the drawer closed.
After several minutes, he was satisfied.
“Your actions undermined my authority in this house. That is unacceptable.”
Aoife stood stock-still, waiting for his judgement. She kept hearing how fair he was. She was about to learn whether that was true.
“Do it again, and you will face the consequences.”
Lord Halverton spun on his heel and strode out of the door. Aoife sank down onto the bed behind her, shaken and surprised. Had she misjudged him?
A sharp metallic clang, bright, resonant and oddly ceremonial, rolled through the corridor
Aoife flinched and straightened.
Clara appeared in the doorway, calm and composed as always, but her breathing was a little faster than usual, as though she’d hurried but didn’t want to show it.
“What was that?” Aoife asked.
“Dressing gong.”
Aoife blinked. “The what?”
“The gong for dressing,” Clara said, as though it were obvious. She stepped fully into the room, smoothing her apron. “It means you’ve an hour before dinner.”
Aoife stared. “And… that requires a gong?”
“It does here,” Clara said, voice dropping with a hint of apology. “The ladies of noble houses need time to change their gowns, fix their hair, all of that.”
Aoife’s frown deepened. “But I’m already dressed.”
“Not for dinner, you’re not.” Clara crossed to the wardrobe, opening it with a decisive tug. The gowns inside gleamed softly in the late light, silks and satins in shades Aoife didn’t even have names for.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Aoife said as Clara dressed her. “Changing clothes to eat?”
“It’s the way things are done here.”
Aoife let out a breath, half a sigh. “Seems a waste.”
It took several long minutes for Clara to help her into the dress. When she was done, she smoothed the bodice and stepped back. “There. You look… well, you look the part.”
Aoife glanced at the mirror beside the wardrobe, hardly recognising the woman staring at her with stiff posture, hair pinned tight, wearing a dress that belonged to a lady with a life entirely unlike her own.
“I’m not sure which part that is,” she murmured.
The footman, Kit, led her to the dining room. He had the same sharp jawline as James, the same golden eyes. No wonder she had mixed them up at first.
