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‘Where did they come from?’
‘Why, from Glasgow, Mrs Langdale. Mrs Merry gave Angus your measurements a while back, and His Grace and Ewan collected them now during their trip. There is even a ball gown, the orange one. Lochmore colours. For the ball.’
‘For the ball.’ Jo couldn’t seem able to say anything of any sense. She knew the castle was preparing for a special event, but somehow it had not registered that this had anything to do with her.
‘Why, yes. It is Summer Solstice tomorrow. The feud ball,’ Beth prompted a little worriedly, as if Jo truly had forgotten the upcoming ball that turned the usually subdued castle into a hive of activity.
‘The feud ball.’
Beth appeared to interpret Jo’s blank repetition as confusion about the concept and hurried into an explanation.
‘Aye, it is meant as a time for the families to lay down arms and work through differences. Well, the old Duke and McCrieff would not always see eye to eye, to say the least, and for quite a few years there was no ball. But Lady Glenarris insisted it start again after she had the Great Hall made into a ballroom. She did love a good ball and she wore such fine gowns... This year there will be another. People will arrive tomorrow from miles and miles which is why we have extra hands from Kilmarchie and Crinan. Everyone is most excited. Here. This will be your gown.’
Beth unfolded the orange dress with reverence and Jo stared, bemused, at the soft fall of shimmering fabric. Now she could see the fine embroidery of stars along the bodice and waist and the trimming of the short, puckered sleeves.
‘See how light it is?’ Beth’s voice sank into a whisper and Jo succumbed and touched. It was as soft as a feather and she drew her fingers back guiltily. She could not possibly accept this. Angus had explained about the ball but foolishly she had never realised she was to attend. For the simple reason that she had nothing suitable to wear.
And now she had.
Except that she didn’t.
She looked down at her grey dress which, despite drying while she was on the Devil’s Seat, was rumpled and the hems stained white with salt water. It was horrid and would need washing, but it was still serviceable.
And it was hers.
These dresses were...
‘I’ll help you out of that dress, now, Mrs Langdale. Once you’ve bathed I think you should wear the blush muslin. It will look very fine with your eyes and hair. I know you prefer to do your own hair, but if you don’t mind, I’ll dress your hair, too. I’m good, miss. I used to dress Her Ladyship’s hair and hers was almost as long as yours, though not so thick.’
As Beth went about realising her plan, Jo did what she had learned to do years ago when the world swept her along. She stepped outside herself and allowed the current to carry her body while her mind alternately fretted and fled. Usually it resulted in her mind throwing up its hands and giving in, but as she sat before the dressing-table mirror, suffering the unfamiliar tug and pull of another person’s hands in her hair and staring at the familiar yet foreign woman being formed in front of her, her ability to divorce herself evaporated.
‘That looks much better. You look right lovely, Mrs Langdale.’ Beth sounded surprised, which stung nerves already raw and jangling.
‘Yes. Thank you, Beth.’
It was only as Beth went towards the dressing-room door, Jo’s old dress draped over her arm like a depleted sack of flour, that a spark lit deep inside Jo.
She was angry.
‘Beth. That dress. When it is clean I want it back.’
‘But, Mrs Langdale...’
‘It is mine, Beth.’
Beth glanced down at the dress she held.
‘Of course, Mrs Langdale. If you wish.’
Jo nodded. At least Beth understood. Benneit Lochmore on the other hand... He might mean well, but she was angry. He might have better taste, or more money, or better intentions than Cousin Celia, but she was angry.
Very angry.
It felt so good to be so angry.
Halfway down the stairs she spotted Angus just exiting the estate room and hailed him. He stopped and stared as she descended the last stairs.
‘Mrs Langdale...!’
She ignored the admiration in his voice.
‘Where is he, Angus?’
His brows rose into the fall of his ginger hair, his eyes darting to the estate room, and he shifted as if to block her passage.
