The Bridal Season (8 page)

Letty had never imagined so many whites existed. She’d
unwrapped hard, gleaming nacre white and white as soft as a dove’s wing;
brilliant snow-white and white as mellow as ancient ivory. Dense chalk-white
and thin, milky-white. Silvery-white and cool alabaster-white.

And after the material, she’d started on the trunks.

She’d unpacked every decorative accoutrement a woman could
want. There were kidskin gloves with four buttons or six in half a dozen
colors, silk stockings so sheer they seemed transparent, silk tassels for hats
and bird’s wings for headdresses, tippets and scarves to drape around the neck,
sashes and ribbons to tie about the waist.

Lady Agatha hadn’t scrimped on the underpinnings, either.
Cartons of frilly unmentionables stood open about the room; pads and tounures
to shape the hips, and chemises and corsets to enhance the bust. And there were
petticoats, beautiful, soft, draping petticoats, designed to tantalize the
imagination of anyone who might catch a glimpse of their frilly hems.

Letty’s mother would have fainted dead away in ecstasy. Veda
had always claimed that she’d stayed with Lady Fallontrue because in return for
her talents, her ladyship had allowed Letty to be educated with her own
children. But Letty suspected that as good a reason for Veda’s putting up with
the woman’s cruel tongue and pitiful wages was that Lady Fallontrue gave Veda
free rein to create all the wondrous gowns that crowded her imagination.

For all her flaws—and there were a great many— Lady Fallontrue
had two distinct gifts: she knew genius when she saw it and was wise enough not
to interfere with it. Who else would let a nobody like Veda create as she saw
fit? Certainly not the music hall owners with their cheap velveteen and cheaper
chintz.

But that’s where Veda had ended up—as costume designer to
second-rate music hall performers. Not that they’d always been second-rate,
Letty thought loyally. When Lady Fallontrue had hired The Amazing Algernon as a
divertissement for one of her “athomes,” he’d been at the top of his career, a
handsome, acrobatic, and charming magician.

Lady Fallontrue was not the only one who thought so. Veda had
taken one look at The Amazing Algernon—born Alfie Potts—and for the second time
in her life, fallen in love. This time with happier results.

Not that Letty wasn’t the sunshine of her life, Veda had
always said, but frankly put—and Veda Potts was nothing if not frank—Letty was
likely the only good thing that had ever come from Letty’s father, Viscount
Napier.

Twenty-four hours after Alf’s performance—and just which
performance Letty had never had the nerve to ask—Veda had given Lady Fallontrue
her notice. The rest, as the storytellers liked to say, was history. Alfie and
Veda had married and Alf had happily stepped into the role of stepfather. The
three of them had moved to London where Letty had lived ever since, raised
behind a hundred stages’ crimson curtains, sung to sleep at night by racy
ditties, and apprenticed in the myriad crafts of the theater, both legit and
un.

Then, six years ago, Veda had caught a cold that had turned
into pneumonia. She’d died. Alfie, brokenhearted, had left the stage. Veda
would have hated that. She hated a quitter and she hated a soft-heart. “Give me
a strong back over a soft heart any old day,” she’d said. And even on her
deathbed had managed to croak out, “Don’t cry, Letty. Tears are for the weak and
the weak don’t survive.”

Letty refused to leave London with Alf. She was a good singer
and, regardless of what the know-nothing critics said, a good actress, too. And
she was beginning to be noticed by those who could get a girl a leg up.

Like Nick Sparkle...

Letty flopped over on her stomach, refusing to entertain
thoughts of Nick and her mistakes related to him. She studied the cascades of
material thoughtfully. Oh, the things her mother would have done with this
windfall!

Letty smiled.

Veda had been no saint and, Lord knows, neither was Letty. But
mostly they’d been pals. Especially after Alf had come into their life. Alf had
knit them together, made them a family.

It had been too many months since she’d visited him. Maybe
once things with Nick had blown over she could look him up in his little rural
cottage. He’d said the door would always be open to her. On the other hand, she
wasn’t about to bring her troubles to her stepfather’s door. She’d go somewhere
else. Maybe France.

And in order to do that, she needed money. Which a few of
these dresses and some of these costly baubles would bring.
If
she could
find a buyer for them. She sat up.

The first order of business was to continue to string these
folks along in their belief that she was Lady Agatha. Particularly Sir Elliot.
And that meant making a grand show of herself. She looked down at her
once-lovely lavender gown. The lace was pulled out of shape and the under dress
was stained. She couldn’t wear it again. She sighed. No rest for the wicked.

She glanced down at Fagin, sleeping blissfully. The fool mutt
hadn’t left the bed since he’d landed on it. Well, he’d best not get too used
to a life of luxury, she thought. Though no one deserved it better than he did.

She wasn’t rightly sure just how she and old Fagin had teamed
up. Fate, she supposed. She’d come out of the back alley of a third-rate music
hall one night after finishing her act and found a pack of boys torturing a
little dog. They’d had it cornered. She hated above all things to see a
creature cornered like that.

So she’d waded into their midst with fists flying and legs
kicking and, most importantly, screaming at the top of a pair of incredibly
gifted lungs. Afraid a copper would show, the mob had dispersed. The ragged
little dog had scooted in with her when she’d returned to the music hall. Fagin
had been with her ever since. Not a pet she owned, not something she was really
responsible for. He was just
with
her, was all.

“All right, then,” she murmured. “Until we’re back in London,
you can consider yourself officially on holiday. But don’t you get too used to
finer things, m’lad, because they’re temporary.”

She pushed herself to her feet and fetched the sewing basket
she’d found in one of the trunks. She rummaged through it until she found scissors,
needles, and thread. Then, with the eye of a connoisseur, she began sorting
through the dresses she’d unpacked, looking for the one that would take the
least amount of alteration to make it fit her smaller, riper figure.

A gauzy white muslin, the skirt figured with black swiss dots
and the bodice piped with black velveteen caught her eye. She held it up,
pulling it to her at the waist and studying her reflection in the full-length
mirror. It was lovely. In the very first stare of fashion. Or would be once she
tweaked the bodice and hips. Sir Elliot wouldn’t spare a glance for his former fiancée
once he got an eyeful of her in this dress.

Well, she admitted after a moment, of course he would spare a
glance
for Catherine Bunting. And words. And a dance or two. Because he was a
gentleman, and gentlemen always paid equal attention to all the ladies of their
acquaintance. Added to that, even if he wanted to, a gentleman would
never
monopolize
one particular lady.

But, Letty grinned, spinning around and setting the skirts
swirling out, wouldn’t it be thrilling if he did?

Find out what people want to do,

then tell them to do it. They’ll think

you’re a genius.

“GOOD MORNING, MISS BIGGLESWORTH.”

Eglantyne, who’d been waiting in the breakfast room since nine
o’clock for their celebrated guest, or rather their employee, rose from her
seat. “Good morning, Lady Agatha...” Her voice trailed off.

Lady Agatha, posed dramatically in the doorframe, smiled. “Is
something amiss?”

“No, not at all,” Eglantyne hastened to say. “It’s just that
your dress ... It’s ... it’s so ... so exceptional.”

The black piping decorating the bodice drew attention to Lady
Agatha’s happy abundance in that area. Almost as much attention as the
glove-close fit of the gown across the hips and nether regions. From there, the
black dotted skirts fell in a long cascade of material that brushed the floor.

Lady Agatha’s vastly expressive face lit with pleasure. She
twirled, setting the light skirt swirling about her ankle in a froth of ruffles.
“It’s all the thing in town.”

With a sickly smile, Eglantyne sank down in her chair. Dear
Lord, she hoped Lady Agatha wouldn’t suggest Angela’s wedding gown look like
that.

Lady Agatha paused beside the buffet, inspecting the scant
leavings from the breakfast that had been put out hours before. She picked up a
piece of dry toast. “I recall your saying something to that charming Sir Elliot
about a picnic today?”

“Yes,” Eglantyne said, hoping Lady Agatha liked the outdoors.
She certainly looked like a, er,
healthy
young woman. “Our other guests
will be arriving at about four o’clock.”

“Delightful!” Lady Agatha smiled happily. She returned to the
breakfast table, her hips undulating in a graceful and impressive manner. Not
that Lady Agatha needed to move in order to be impressive. Not in that dress,
Eglantyne thought, feeling the warmth creep into her cheeks.

Lady Agatha began to hum, a catchy little ditty that stuck in
the mind and sounded somehow... well, a bit
fast
Eglantyne, as bemused
by the ditty as the dress, picked up the breakfast bell and rang it
frantically.

She wished Cabot would hurry. Cabot would know what to do and
how to react. He was the perfect butler. She didn’t know how to respond to
Society ladies or what to say. This whole affair of hiring an aristocratic
employee, the marquis’s exalted family coming so soon, Angela’s impending
marriage, and then the fact that she’d be going away and never coming back
again—

Eglantyne’s eyes clouded over with tears. She had the most
awful foreboding that everything was going to go horribly awry. And then Lady
Agatha was beside her, sliding into the chair next to hers and laying a hand
gently on Eglantyne’s forearm. “What’s wrong, du—darling?”

“Nothing,” Eglantyne said bravely, but the unexpected sympathy
in Lady Agatha’s voice threatened her composure. She
couldn’t
confide in
a stranger, especially such an illustrious one.

“Are you sure?” Lady Agatha prodded gently. Her warm brown
eyes were steady and just a little bit amused, not in a mocking way, but in an oddly
reassuring way, as if there was no trouble in the world that one couldn’t laugh
away.

“I am so glad you are here,” Eglantyne burst out. “I feel so
inadequate for the whole ugly—Oh!” As soon as the horrible word was out she
regretted it. Heat flamed in her cheeks. “How awful you must think me!”

“Why? Whatever for?” Lady Agatha said.

Eglantyne gazed at her thankfully for kindly ignoring the all
too obvious fact that she’d just about called her dear, darling Angela’s
upcoming nuptials “the whole ugly task.” As if it were some onerous chore, like
scouring a floor or blacking shoes and not a cause for... for cele ...
celebra...

Eglantyne burst into tears.

Letty stared at her, stricken. She couldn’t imagine what had
set Eglantyne off. Not that she was concerned, mind you; why should she be?
Eglantyne Bigglesworth had everything a body could want. And it was only that
she was curious about what could cause a rich woman to sob so pitifully that
she put her arm around the older woman’s shoulder and gave a little squeeze.

Eglantyne lifted her head. Her eyes were puffy and red and her
nose was dripping. As Letty didn’t suppose Eglantyne was the type who’d take
advantage of her sleeve, she picked up the tidily folded napkin beside her
plate, snapped it open, and held it under Eglantyne’s nose. “Here, dear, blow
your nose. There’s a girl....Now then, why don’t you tell me what these tears
are about?”

“I really shouldn’t trouble you...”

“Nonsense. It is my job to be troubled. I mean, to facilitate
weddings. If something is amiss, then I can’t do my job properly, can I?”

“I suppose not. But there’s nothing amiss, really. It’s just
that... I don’t know. I suppose I’m a foolish, selfish old woman. I want
Angela’s happiness more than anything in the world, but oh! I shall miss her
so—oo—oo.”

She burst into tears again.

“Of course you will,” Letty crooned, wrapping her arm around
Eglantyne’s shoulders and rocking her gently. When Eglantyne’s shaking
subsided, Letty shoved the wrinkled napkin into her hand again. “That doesn’t
mean you are selfish. It simply means you love Angela.”

“Oh, I do! I do!” Eglantyne blew her nose.

“And you’ve been mum to her for how long?” Letty asked.

“Ever since her mother died giving birth to her.

Over eighteen years.” She smiled tremulously. “She was so
sweet and tiny and the dearest little creature you can imagine. I simply
couldn’t leave her in the care of someone we
paid
to—” She blushed. “Oh!
I am sure I didn’t mean that simply because one was paid for one’s efforts they
were somehow less valuable!”

“Never mind, dearie,” Letty said comfortably. “I’m not
offended. And I quite understand. You can rent a chap’s talents, but you can’t
buy someone’s affection, and clearly you’d fallen in love with the little
squib.”

“Squib?”

“Baby.”

“You understand. I just want her to be happy and I am worried
that my misgivings about her becoming a marchioness spring from an entirely
selfish desire to keep her here with me.”

Letty patted her shoulder. “You mustn’t fret. I’m sure your
Angela will be ecstatic in her grand castle.”
I
would be.
“As a
marchioness, she’ll have no more to do than order about a horde of servants and
count the family portraits. She’ll dine on caviar and champagne every night and
have two dresses for every hour in the week.”