Page 76 of A Symphony for the Earl

Octavia, vibrating with excitement, twirled in the center of the room as a seamstress attempted to hem her satin ball dress.

“Octavia, you must stand still, dear,” her mother begged, “or the fitting will take twice as long.” Lady Amelia relaxed in a comfortable chair, sipping ratafia and fanning herself.

“Oh, I can’t! Mama, do you see my ribbons? Aren’t they smashing? Fiona, don’t you—” Octavia’s lips formed a round “oh” as Madame Brigitte stood back from her creation.

The delicate pomegranate gown parted over an ivory crepe underskirt embroidered in tiny crimson roses and flounced with blond Mechlin lace. An empire bodice, fashioned with layers of the same lace, crisscrossed over her bosom, ending in sheer elbow-length sleeves.

Valentina paused in her examination of Madame’s ribbons. “My goodness, Fiona. How lovely. Mama, come look.”

Lady Amelia nodded. “Perfect, Brigitte. Fitting indeed for a future countess.”

Madame surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. “Now, chèrie, go behind the curtain, and Jolene will help you change. Then, the petite mademoiselle Octavia will do the same. Your dresses will be delivered tomorrow, je promets.”

After Fiona emerged, Lady Amelia set down her empty glass with a contented sigh and rose, shaking out her plum skirts. “Brigitte, your sense of fashion is exquisite, as always. If I could hide you away and keep you for ourselves, I would.”

“Bah, you know I am always at the call of the fashionable Lady Merrick and your so-charming son. I do not forget my benefactors. Shall you go to Mivart’s for tea? The croissants are délicieuse indeed. Now, vite, vite! I need to finish your dresses for tomorrow.”

Octavia danced to her mother. “May we have croissants, Mama? Pleeaase…”

“You must not become so excited about food, my dear. A young lady finds such trivialities tiresome, not a cause for celebration.”

As Lady Amelia took up her reticule and gloves, Fiona rubbed her stomach and mouthed “I’m starving, too,” in Octavia’s direction.

“Oh dear, where did I put my fan?” Lady Amelia fretted. “There it is. Come, let us take refreshment. We still have to visit the milliner. Octavia, do not run!”

*

As the spring races finished at Newmarket, it was still winter across the Irish Sea. In Dame Street, West Dublin, Patrick O’Cleary sat at his polished desk, rereading the astounding letter before him once again. In all his years as a solicitor, he had never faced such a tangle. What on earth was he supposed to do?

His florid clerk appeared in the doorway, coughing discreetly. “Your appointment is here, sir. Shall I show the gentleman in?”

O’Cleary straightened, putting aside the crumpled paper. “Yes, please do.”

It was time to face a ghost from the past.

*

Fiona faced the mirror as Betty held up a length of garnet ribbon.

“I was thinking, miss, á la Chinoise, but perhaps a long curl or two over one shoulder?” A half-dozen fragrant miniature roses of ivory tinged with red lay on the dressing table. “And I’ll thread a few flowers on that same side. Wherever did the earl find such perfect blooms, miss?”

She fingered the brooch pinned to the center of her lace bodice. It had arrived yesterday with matching eardrops, the roses, and a note scrawled in the earl’s bold handwriting:

Forgive me. I deeply regret my abominable behavior. Let us make the best of this tangled jumble I have made of our engagement.

Yours, R

The apology made her want to run and throw herself into his arms. After much thought, she conceded that his sense of honor was strong enough to overcome his desire for her, and that was admirable. But it still hurt, and she was unsure if they could ever deal with each other reasonably.

Betty pinned up Fiona’s dark hair, deftly applying the hair tongs to add clusters of curls. She interspersed these with fragrant roses, leaving a swathe of longer spirals over one bare shoulder. “I suggest no ribbons, miss. The roses are decoration enough.”

Fiona slipped on the pearl earrings, single drops held by a tiny etched gold band. The color was lustrous and matched the brooch, a nosegay of pearls and diamonds.

“Well? Am I ready?”

“Oh, miss, don’t forget this.” Betty picked up her engagement ring from the dressing table.

She slipped it on. The symbol of her promise. Perhaps it wasn’t the marriage she had imagined, but it was useless to deny her feelings. Whether love or lust or something in between, she wanted to be with Richard Merrick, and it was more than just an escape from poverty or spinsterhood.