“I believe,” Lady Genevieve said, “that my son sent you several mementos of your daughter, not everything she owned. Naturally, what my grandson purchased for her remains in the house until Addy is old enough to know what she wishes to do with her mother’s possessions.”
It was doubtful that Mrs. Grenshaw heard what the other woman had said. She had gone on her knees beside the opened trunk and was now rooting through the folded gowns, gloves, and garters. “These have hardly been worn,” she crooned, lifting out a glove of crochet work. “What tiny hands Emily had. Come, Addy, look! They were your mother’s. Why, they’d hardly fit you and she was full grown.”
Mrs. Grenshaw pressed the relics to her cheek for an instant before letting them fall. “And here,” she said, as she took a gown by the shoulders and stood up, the material unfolding as she rose. “You see, she was small and slight of figure. I could span her waist with my hands. But how daring on a horse or in a carriage! Look, here’s her riding habit. She must have been charming in this, with all this black frogging down the front, just like a soldier.”
“Actually, Mrs. Grenshaw, to the best of my recollection, Emily never wore that. Why she had it made, as she was in an interesting condition at the time, I cannot tell you. Perhaps she thought she might wear it later.”
The fact that for Emily there had been no later hung unspoken in the air, scented as it was by both the perfume of a long-dead woman and dust motes that swirled and sparkled in the sunlight that came through the round window. Lillian could not help but think of Emily’s husband, riding in the sunshine, unaware that his wife’s fragrance lived again in his house.
Addy broke the silence. “Here, Miss Cole. You’d better take it then.”
Mrs. Grenshaw closed her hands, crushing the fabric. “What do you mean, child?”
“Well, Great said I can do what I want with this stuff,” Addy said, kicking the trunk. “And Miss Cole just said she doesn’t have a riding habit.”
“It won’t fit me, Addy. I’m much too large. I thank you, however, for the thought.”
“It could probably be made over. Miss Cole,” Lady Genevieve said. “Let me see it, Mrs. Grenshaw.”
“No!” Mrs. Grenshaw jerked the habit out of Lady Genevieve’s reach.
Lillian, appalled, said, “I really don’t think ... please, Mrs. Grenshaw, don’t alarm yourself. As you said, Emily was extremely petite and I am not.”
“Don’t you dare call her Emily! Isn’t it wicked enough that you’re trying to usurp her place without that?”
Very much aware that the two young footmen as well as Addy were standing by with both ears extended, Lillian said, “Let me assure you—”
“No, no! I saw the way you were flirting with Thorpe, making eyes at him as if you two were the only ones in the room! Haven’t you at least the decency to hide your feelings like a respectable woman should? I know my Emily would never have thrown herself at a man as you are doing.”
“Your Emily ... !” Lady Genevieve began. Then she stopped and drew herself upright. “It is not meet that we should brangle so. Close that trunk, Ben, and we shall continue to look for my wedding dress. You must see the lace piece that crossed the bodice, Mrs. Grenshaw. A miracle of workmanship, by my blind aunt, Mathilde.”
“I don’t care about your aunt,” Mrs. Grenshaw said. “I don’t understand how you can expose my innocent grandchild—”
“Really, Mrs. Grenshaw,” Lady Genevieve said. “I believe you are overwrought. It is rather warm up here; perhaps you would be more comfortable returning to the floor below.” One finger negligently indicated Addy, standing by with wide, interested eyes.
“Yes, yes, perhaps I should,” Mrs. Grenshaw said in a low voice. She turned about as if to go and then said, “Although I should like to see that gown you spoke of. May I stay?” Her hysterical outburst over, Mrs. Grenshaw almost seemed like another woman, mild and sensible. She took an intelligent part in searching for the correct trunk and was actually the person who found it.
“Perhaps it would be better if it were carried down to another room,” she suggested, straightening after peering at the legend on a tattered paper. “It is rather dusty up here.”
Lady Genevieve agreed. “Bert, John, carry this trunk to my chamber, if you’d be so good. Let us all tidy ourselves and meet there.”
In her room, Lillian was relieved to find that the dust brushed easily off her dress as her wardrobe could not afford the ruination of another one. She poured water into a basin and sponged her face. Raising her head to meet her eyes in the mirror, she saw her hair was festooned with cobwebs. Plucking them off, she removed the pins from the dark coil and brushed it until it was soft and curling. Pausing after putting down the brush, she looked at herself again in the wavy reflection.
What expression had Mrs. Grenshaw seen in her eyes when they regarded Thorpe? Were her accusations not merely the ravings of a woman, jealous of the memory of a dead child, but rather a sharp observation? Lillian conjured him in her mind but did not see any great change in her face. Of course, she reasoned, there might be an alteration if Thorpe were to enter her room as he had once before, when she wore very little more than she did now. Quickly, Lillian peered again in the glass. No, she looked as certain men had told her she always looked—calm, serene, and not entirely unattractive.
At least Lady Genevieve’s actions presented no riddle to be puzzled over. Obviously, Lillian was to be thrown at Thorpe’s head as an alternative to Nora Ellis. Though his grandmother was adamantly against Thorpe’s remarrying—so much being blatantly clear—it was equally plain that any other wife would be preferable to a resurrection of his ties to the Grenshaws. Lillian did not feel flattered to be the lesser of two evils.
Despite having to redress her hair, Lillian was the first down. Knocking at Lady Genevieve’s door, she heard a soft voice bid her enter. Lady Genevieve had changed her costume and once more sported an elegant fichu of soft lace and cambric. Hoping she was being brave, not foolish, Lillian said, “Forgive me for saying it, my lady, but I wonder if you are wise to let your dislike of Mrs. Grenshaw show so.”
“Are you attempting to teach me to suck eggs, Miss Cole?” Lady Genevieve asked in a surprisingly mild tone.
“I am thinking of Addy, Lady Genevieve. It cannot be good to let her see that you... are not in sympathy with Mrs. Grenshaw’s feelings.”
“I will tell you. Miss Cole, that I enter into Mrs. Grenshaw’s feelings more than you are aware. I too have lost children, and my husband. There is little I do not understand about grief and what it may do to the mind. But I do not think it seemly for a woman of mature age to play at puppets, as she wishes to do with Addy.” Lady Genevieve’s back was exceedingly straight. “Besides, there are matters involved here of which you know nothing, Miss Cole. I am not likely to permit the same mistake to happen twice. That is all I wish to say.”
“If you mean Miss Ellis—”
“Yes?” said a third voice from the open door behind Lillian. The slender blonde entered the room, no longer in riding dress. “Someone told me my aunt would be here.”
As Lady Genevieve seemed unable for the moment to speak, Lillian said, “She should be joining us in a moment. Won’t you come in?”
“Thank you. Did—did I hear my name?” The girl hesitated, as though afraid of her own temerity.
Lillian answered smoothly,
ton
diplomacy coming to her aid, “Yes, I asked Lady Genevieve if I should invite you to join us.” She explained what they were doing.
“I should like to see that. My sisters and I often dressed up in our grandparent’s clothes. It was one of our favorite pastimes. We’d act out scenes from different plays. Otway, Steele, Sheridan, you know.”
Without her aunt there to watch and criticize, Nora’s face relaxed into a natural smile, displaying a wholly unsuspected dimple. Lillian wondered if that grace note had appeared for Thorpe as they rode together. Surely the girl could not still be frightened of him after partaking of his undivided attention? Lillian found she was closely inspecting Nora to find some flaw to balance her beauty.
“Though Otway and Steele are somewhat before my time,” Lady Genevieve said gently, “I well recall the first performance of
The Rivals.
It was not a great success, though I believe it later had another, more profitable run.”
“You were there, my lady? Oh, do tell me of it. I have never seen a real performance of any play. Is it very wonderful to go to the theater? Have you ever been, Miss Cole?”
‘Tolerably often,” Lillian said indulgently. “Much depends on the vigor of the performance.”
“That is so often true,” Lady Genevieve said quite as if she were thinking of something else. “But, tell me. Miss Cole, what did you last see? It has been some years since I was in London. I fear I am not
au courant
.”
So, to pass the time, Lillian told her about the last play she’d seen, a work known as
The Ingrateful Wife,
featuring the lovely and agile Miss Tovey, the latest rage. Nora listened with hands clasped in fervent interest to the description of the play itself while Lady Genevieve nodded at audience activities she recognized from her own play-going days.
“Ah, that would be the actress Thorpe told me of. He said she was tolerable when he saw her performance in some other play the last time he visited London.”
“When was this?” Lillian asked. Hadn’t Paulina said something about Thorpe never going to London?
“In March, I believe. Yes, first he visited a friend’s home ... the Duke of Grantor, I think. He then went to visit his man of business in the City and while there, indulged himself. He returned with a virtual cartload of trinkets and toys for Addy. Is that not when he arranged for your coming, Miss Cole?”
Lillian was saved the necessity of answering by Nora. “Mr— Mr. Everard seems very kind,” she said in a faltering voice. “I wonder...”
“Yes, Miss Ellis?” Lady Genevieve asked, leaning forward.
“He’d never be, well, cruel to anyone, would he?”
There was an expression of such frightful anxiety in her eyes that Lillian responded without thinking. Putting her hand on Nora’s arm, she said, “I cannot imagine him being harsh toward anyone. Miss Ellis. Put your mind at ease. Whatever the difficulty we will help you.”
The girl’s smile broke out again, tremulous and timid. “If only you could! My aunt—”
“Yes, Nora, what about me?”
Lillian saw the girl freeze at the sound of that whispery voice, exactly as though a chilling wind had sprung up. Though she supposed it was none of her affair, she hated to see the animated Miss Ellis turn once more into the automaton of last evening. She said, “Miss Ellis asked me to go to fetch you, Mrs. Grenshaw. We could not imagine what was keeping you so long.”
“I take my time while dressing, instead of hurrying into my clothes and looking all hurly-burly.” If that were true, the result did not speak of it, or perhaps Mrs. Grenshaw’s curls never lay smooth no matter how rigorous a brushing she gave them.
Once Addy came in and was seated, more or less comfortably on her grandmother’s knee, Nora and Lillian opened the trunk under Lady Genevieve’s orders. A cloud of pink satin, slightly lighter in tone than old rose, lay as though barely heavy enough to be subject to gravity.
“Yes,” Lady Genevieve said softly yet triumphantly, “that is it.”
Casting her eye upon the assembled ladies, she said, “I could hold it up, but you would not be appreciative of the total effect. One of you must put it on. Lillian, I believe I was more or less your size then. I was taller as a girl. One shrinks with age.”
“Surely Nora—” Mrs. Grenshaw said.
“No, no. It would hang on her like an old sack. I could not bear to see it. Come, Lillian, divest yourself of your gown. I still recall how to lace the bodice.”
Perhaps Lillian should have passed the honor on to one of the other ladies, or tried to persuade Lady Genevieve that she’d not shrunk so much as all that. But she was still in shock from hearing her Christian name twice on her ladyship’s lips. Also, she knew a sneaking longing to attire herself in the fashion of another age. Her father’s family had not been the sort of people who wore silk and lace to their nuptials, and her mother’s heirlooms had been sold in the poor days long before Lillian’s birth.
“I shall be delighted,” she said, starting to untie her wrap-front muslin dress. In a little less than half an hour, she was once more dressed, this time in a billowing skirt with a very tight bodice. It felt quite odd to look down and see a bell of satin around her hips, where before she was able to look down a straight column of fabric to see her shoes whenever she chose. Now, she could only vaguely realize that she wore them somewhere beneath a plethora of petticoats and an abbreviated farthingale that puffed out her skirt at the sides. The creases and wrinkles from the gown’s long slumber in the trunk were stretched by this contraption so that the skirt looked as if newly pressed.
“I regret that the Greek styles ever became so common,” Lady Genevieve said with a sigh. “The costumes of my girlhood were so much more comfortable. I do not find these new fashions at all conformable with the older figure.” She lifted her hands in a helpless way. “Fluff out those frills at your elbow, Lillian, my dear. Yes, like that.”
Countless ruffles of Aunt Mathilde’s lace foamed and cascaded from beneath the elbow-length sleeves of the outer gown. They were attached to a high-necked chemise which, though an adequate covering, was nearly transparent over her breasts, raised and separated by an iron busk. About her waist, a sheer apron, embellished with more lace, hung in a great sweep across the front of the gown.
Walking somewhat awkwardly toward Lady Genevieve’s cheval glass, Lillian laughed to see herself such a guy. “I’m sure you were very elegant on your wedding day. Lady Genevieve, but. ..”
“Yet it is very becoming to you,” the older woman said.
Lillian faced the others. “What do you think, Addy?”
But the voice that answered her was not that of the child. “I have never seen anyone so beautiful in all my life.” Thorpe stood in the doorway, lounging against the frame, one booted foot crossed over the other. How long had he stood there, watching her primp and fuss? Lillian flushed hotly as his clear green gaze flicked down over her body, the upper portion so inadequately veiled. The others seemed a long way off, their voices muffled as by a mist.