Page 61 of Pride & Petticoats

For the first time in months, she hadn’t thought of Thomas and her father’s death immediately upon waking. And for the first time in five years, she felt as if the world might hold something more for her than debt and worry. How long had it been since she’d even allowed the idea of a husband and family to flit through her thoughts? But would Freddie want that? And could she stay if he did not care for her as she did for him?

She must have dozed off again because the next time she woke, Addy was banging about her room, looking pointedly at the nightgown and robe scattered across the rug. Her maid was adding lavender oil to steaming water in the copper tub, and the sight of the washbasin in her room made Charlotte blush.

Charlotte took her baths in the evening, Freddie in the morning. Charlotte doubted Freddie was even aware of the arrangement that had established a modicum of peace between Addy and Wilkins. But if the tub was in her room this morning, Addy must have guessed what had happened last night and assumed her mistress would want a bath.

Charlotte groaned. Probably the whole household already knew. At the sound, Addy turned to her. “So you’re awake. Hmpf. Finally.”

Charlotte pulled the sheet over her head and mumbled a good morning.

“No need to hide under there, Miss Charlotte. You don’t have to answer to Addy about all your goings-on. Lord knows, you are a grown woman.”

Charlotte peeked out from under the sheet, uncertain as to whether Addy was being sincere or not.

“Course you ain’t a married woman,” Addy went on, and Charlotte pulled the covers up again, “but you are old enough to know what’s right and what’s wrong. You don’t need Addy here to tell you.”

From under the covers, Charlotte mumbled, “Can I have a few moments alone? I’ll call you when I’m done with my bath.”

“You do that,” Addy said, her voice a fraction softer. “But you’d best not tarry too long. That fool girl Hester is going to be in here soon to straighten up, and you know she’s nosier than a cat.”

Because Hester probably would be in to straighten the room soon, Charlotte ripped the sheets off the bed and stuffed them in the back of the armoire. The last thing she needed was the household speculating about the blood on those sheets. Then she hurried through her bath and was just pulling her chemise over her lace-frilled drawers when there was a rap on her door, and it was pushed open.

Not bothering to look, Charlotte said, “Will you shake the wrinkles out of my light blue muslin, Hester? I think I shall wear that today.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” an authoritative feminine voice barked. Charlotte almost pinched a nerve in her neck, she whipped it around so quickly.

Dewhurst’s mother looked exactly as Charlotte remembered—be-feathered, be-ruffled, beringed. She thumped her walking stick on the floor and took in Charlotte’s room with one shrewd glance.

Charlotte searched for her voice, hoping to distract Lady Dewhurst from the absent bedsheets and the flimsy nightclothes on the floor. “Lady Dewhurst!” she finally choked out. “How good to see you. But what are you doing here so early?”

“Early? It’s nigh eleven in the morning, and if you do not hurry you will not be ready when your callers arrive. Mark my words, there will be a line at precisely three, and as I understand it, Madam Vivienne is on her way with the rest of your wardrobe.”

“Callers?”

Dewhurst’s mother gave her an exasperated look. “Yes. Word is out that you’ve been invited to the Winterbournes’ ball, and the curious will come to gawk.”

Opening the walnut and sandalwood armoire, Lady Dewhurst rifled through Charlotte’s dresses, then shut the cabinet just as quickly. “Appalling. Thank God I had the foresight to send my maid to collect a few of your dresses from Madam Vivienne this morning and bring them along. Here,” she said, indicating a pile of fabric she’d set down next to the armoire. She sorted through it and pulled out a pretty white muslin morning dress with small lavender flowers. “Wear this.”

Charlotte didn’t dare argue, and when she’d have called Addy to help her dress, Lady Dewhurst waved the notion away and insisted on lacing Charlotte’s light demi-corset herself. Moving as efficiently as Addy, the woman then began securing the small buttons of the gown.

For a moment Charlotte wondered if this was what it would have been like had her own mother been alive. Sometimes Charlotte had the vague feeling that she was missing some vital connection in her life, some aspect of female bonding. Strange that she should think of her mother now, when she was so far from home and almost all that reminded her of Katherine Burton. But, then again, perhaps here in London she was closer to her mother than she had ever been. Charlotte found herself wondering how Katie Burton felt after her first night with Charlotte’s father. Had she longed for someone to confide in? Had she wished she could share her experiences with her own mother back in England?

Charlotte couldn’t really imagine anyone wanting to confide in Lady Dewhurst. Then, almost as if she read Charlotte’s thoughts, Lady Dewhurst finished her task and remarked, “As I suspected, this looks well enough. But where is my son?” She gestured to the disheveled room. “He’s keeping you occupied, I see. Are you breeding yet?”

Charlotte choked on the pat answer she had had ready on her tongue.

“Too soon to know, of course,” her mother-in-law filled in. “But if I know my son, it won’t be long. Oh good Lord, girl, stop blushing. We don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want to.”

“And how have you and Lydia been?” Charlotte quickly changed the subject. Perhaps she did not really want anyone to confide in after all. “You seem well,” she added.

“I am quite well, and Lydia . . . hmm, we shall see tonight how things go with Lydia.”

Charlotte slanted a curious glance at Lady Dewhurst, then crossed the room and sat down at her small ebony dressing table. With its Se`vres porcelain plaques in various floral designs and the delicate ormolu mounts, the table was easily Charlotte’s favorite piece of furniture in the room. Sometimes she would sit at it for hours and trace the designs on the plaques of the table and the mirror. Now she adjusted the graceful black and gilt curule chair, feeling just like one of those ancient Roman senators who had once presided in similar chairs.

“Are you speaking of the ball tonight?” Charlotte asked, pinning up her damp hair and threading a white silk ribbon through it.

“We expect Lord Westman to make Lydia a proposal,” Lady Dewhurst said, eyes trained on Charlotte’s progress. A slight twist of her mouth or a raise of an eyebrow guided Charlotte’s actions. Charlotte might not always agree with her mother-in-law, but the peahen did know her coiffures.

“I assume Lydia will accept.”

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