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Chapter 6
One aspectof her disguise Alice had not anticipated was how long it took to fully cover up her freckles. It was such a defining characteristic of her face, she’d felt certain that leaving them visible when she was Mr. Allen and covering them with paint when she was Lady Nightingale would be essential to setting apart her roles as two different people.
However, as she sat for over an hour in front of her dressing room mirror while Mrs. Clarke rubbed white paint over her face, she seriously questioned the decision. And now that she’d made an appearance as Lady Nightingale without freckles, it required that she have her face painted every morning before any callers or visitors happened by.
Every morning.
Without fail.
No matter if she expected visitors that day or not, the paint had to be applied. This was the country, after all, and unexpected visits were to be, ironically enough, expected.
To make the matter even more tedious, she often had to have the paint reapplied before dinner, most especially if she planned to go anywhere that evening. While it had been long the first few times, it was very quickly becoming what felt like a never-ending ordeal.
Many women wore paint on their faces, particularly those of an indeterminate age. Only a few decades ago, white paint had been all the rage. Though it was largely abandoned now, eschewed in all the ladies’ magazines as “unnatural” and “undesirable,” the art had not been lost. It was still practiced by those who were wishing to hide their age, or more commonly, hide lingering scars and pockmarks of childhood diseases.
Mrs. Clarke stood up straight, dipping her rag into the jar of specially made white paint as she walked around Alice, getting ready to tackle her left side.
First father, and afterward, her late husband had always scolded her for not wearing a bonnet often enough when venturing outside. Alice wrinkled her nose and several still exposed freckles blended into fewer, larger spots. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t tried to protect her skin, only, her face liked to freckle and there was nothing for it.
“Nearly there, my lady,” Mrs. Clarke said, bending down over her left cheek and scrubbing paint on.
Alice tried to keep her face as still as possible. It felt an age before Mrs. Clarke finally stood and pronounced her finished. Alice chose not to study her own face in the mirror for long. She glanced at herself to check that all was in order—no streaks of the paint were glaring and no freckles had missed her housekeeper’s careful eye—and then she stood and moved into the center of the room where her abigail, Nancy, helped her dress for dinner at Cresthearth Manor.
The invitation had surprised her greatly. After reading it, she’d taken a full five minutes before she could speak and explain to Mrs. Clarke the reason for her shock. They’d spent the better part the day debating if she should go as Lady Nightingale or as Mr. Allen.
To go as Lady Nightingale meant she could further a connection with Lord Robins, who clearly liked her.
To go as Mr. Allen meant she would endure far less judgment and hostility.
In the end, however, it was decided she should attend as herself. Mr. Allen was how she would learn who was worthy of her attentions, but the end goal was for someone to offer for Lady Nightingale—an event that would never happen if the lady never went out into society and made connections.
Though Alice agreed wholeheartedly with their decision, secretly, she was simply not ready to attend as Mr. Allen. Alice was feeling better about her Mr. Allen portrayal but was not yet completely confident. Somehow, the thought of attending a small, intimate dinner party as Mr. Allen felt far more dangerous than showing up as him at Greenbulls.
Once the dark purple dress was all in place, Nancy next tackled Alice’s hair. First, Nancy combed the short auburn strands into submission, using enough pomade for the hair to remain in place. Then, she placed an old box, which had once held elbow-length gloves, on the table. Opening it up, she pulled out one of the many curls Mrs. Clarke had fashioned from Alice’s cut hair.
Some curls were secured to a bow and others to a small collection of pearls, either of which could be pinned against Alice’s head and give her the appearance of having long hair once more. Mrs. Clarke had even fashioned some buns, already turned and pinned into place, which Nancy could simply secure on top. It took longer for Nancy to do her hair now than it used to, but the result was nearly as flattering.
Indeed, Alice felt almost like her old self again.
“You do lovely work, Nancy,” she said as her abigail stepped back and began gathering up the few unused curls and placing them into the glove box.
“Thank you, my lady.”
With some hair appearing to be pulled up atop her head, and a few curls left hanging down her neck, Alice stood and finally made her way downstairs. As she reached the front entry, Joseph ran up to her and wrapped his arms around her legs, nearly tripping her. Ponto didn’t help when he placed his two small front feet against her as well.
“Oh, my darling,” Alice said with a laugh. “You’re getting so big.” She bent down and swooped Joseph into her arms. Ponto yipped and sat up, his tail wagging happily. “One of these days, you’re going to knock Mama right over.”
Joseph hugged her tightly around her neck with a giggle. “Your freckles are hiding again.”
“Yes, they are. But I will find them before tomorrow morning, I promise.”
He patted her cheeks, directly where her fake sideburns would rest if she had them on. “I’m glad you shaved. I don’t like your face all hairy.”
Oh dear, what was she teaching her child? “I prefer my face when it’s not hairy as well.”
“When will I have to start shaving?”
“When you are older.”
