Page 34 of A Lady's Wager
“Mr. Firth, you are being indecent.”
He looked back at her eyes and suddenly smiled—a flat-out grin on his country face. “If I am being indecent, perhaps you should slap me.”
She was sorely tempted, but the fact that she was holding her hair in place with both hands made it impossible, and wellhe knew it. Never mind that she would never do something so undignified at a ball. This was so humiliating.
The footman who had called the carriage came out of the hallway with two velvet cloaks over his arm. Blast—she’d forgotten that she and Rachel had worn wraps tonight. How would she manage to put her arms through while holding her hair?
As though reading her thoughts, Mr. Firth stepped forward and reached up to put his hands beside her own on either side of her wig. She felt the pressure on her scalp and closed her eyes as the humiliation became more than she could bear for a moment. “You can let go,” he said.
She opened her eyes—his face was very close to hers. Closer than any man had been in a very long time. The scent of his cologne caused a tickle in her belly that she refused to think on.
“Let go and put on your wrap,” he said again, and she lowered her hands, having to look away from him as the footman helped her put her arms through the sleeves and fasten the clasp at the neck. Women of a Certain Age should never be diminished in this way.
“Your carriage will be out front shortly, Mrs. Markshire,” the footman said, stepping away.
Mr. Firth did not let go of her hair, keeping himself close. “Your niece gives my children the opportunity to find their ground in unfamiliar territory. Please take the time to get to know Lydia and give my boy a chance. You can let go of your fears for your niece,” Mr. Firth said in a low voice.
The impertinence of his words turned the heat in her chest from embarrassment to anger. Whatever masked intimacy their proximity offered only emboldened her determination to put him and his son in their place. “Your boy, Mr. Firth, is not even a contender. It is in everyone’s best interest if he focuses his attention elsewhere.”
Mr. Firth narrowed his eyes as he held her gaze a few seconds. He abruptly pulled his hands away from her wig as he stepped back.
Etta would never know if he intentionally unbalanced the wig when he removed his hands or if it was just the law of gravity that came into play, but either way, Etta’s attempts to catch the massive headpiece were to no avail, and the lovely, glittering confection landed on the floor between them with a thump. The sound was deafening, at least to her ears, and her hands immediately flew to her head, which was supposed to have a tight linen wrap…but didn’t. She belatedly saw the fabric still attached to the interior of the wig itself. Her real hair was coiled tightly against her head, pinned close to her scalp in a utilitarian way that was unattractive and never intended for anyone’s view but that of herself and her lady’s maid. Etta looked from the wig—which looked like a pathetically powdered and glittering fir tree—to Mr. Firth. He smiled back at her, then bowed deeply at the waist. “Good evening, Mrs. Markshire.”
ETTA WAS IN THE CARRIAGEwith the hood of her cloak over her head by the time Rachel reached her. The hairpiece lay beside her on the bench and her chest continued to vibrate with humiliation and amplified annoyance.
“Auntie?” Rachel said as the door closed behind her. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Etta said, forcing a smile. “I took it off once I was in the carriage.” She then pointedly looked out the window to show she did not want to discuss it further. Rachel did not press.
Throughout the travel home, Etta’s mind played through the final event of the evening and then spun off into other possible things that could have happened—someone could have come into the foyer before she’d made her escape. The hairpiece could have fallen off in the ballroom. She tried to stop the circling thoughts but found it difficult. Her anxiety rose with every repetition and false scenario.
Once home, Etta carried her wig beneath her cloak to her room, though it was impossible to keep the monstrous thing inconspicuous. In her bedchamber, Lowry had laid out her nightgown and was waiting to help her ready for bed. Ettarevealed the headpiece from inside the fold of her cape and Lowry gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.
“What happened, Mrs. Markshire?”
Etta told her the story, then said she did not want to talk about it further. Lowry nodded her understanding and took the wig from Etta before taking it into the changing room with the other thirteen wigs that Etta owned. Etta doubted she would ever wear it again, not after tonight. She doubted she would ever see that wig without also seeing the scene of it landing on the floor at her feet, Mr. Firth staring at the thing like it was a dead animal.
Mr. Firth’s words repeated in the background of her thoughts—surely the trappings and fripperies of this city do not overpower the humanity.Etta walked to the full-length mirror and looked over her costume and face makeup before taking down the hood of her cape and looking at the whole of herself; the caricature of the woman she presented to the world. It all struck her as utterly ridiculous in light of this evening—Mr. Firth’s lack of manners, her own rudeness, the trappings and fripperies, and…hair. It was what she knew—the way life worked here in London—but tonight it felt heavy and false. What Mr. Firth must think of her…dressed up as she was, exhibiting her own lack of manners. Her tired mind was fertile ground for discontent, and no matter how she tried to push away the thoughts, they would not obey.
Lowry returned, and Etta put her arms out so that Lowry could undo the hidden ties and clasps that held together the three-piece dress—bodice, skirt, and back. The lady’s maid set each piece on the footstool, then removed the outer petticoat and untied the hoop that accentuated Etta’s hips to dramatic proportions. Lowry lowered the hoop to the floor, where Etta stepped out of what suddenly looked like an elaborate birdcage. Lowry took the hoop to the changing room, allowing Etta tolook at herself again—hair bound close to her head, face in full makeup, body bound into her corset that forced a shape that was not her own. How many hours had it taken for her to get ready tonight? Two? Four? All to have her hair fall to the floor at her feet.
Lowry returned to unlace the whalebone corset and layers of petticoats and underskirts required for tonight’s presentation. Etta’s body ached and tingled as it settled into its actual shape after hours of confinement. She removed the shift herself, wincing at a twinge in her shoulder that had been there for years, then rubbed the chaffed area below each arm where the skin was pink and tender from the corset. She undid the garters to her pantaloons and then slid her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown, which felt smooth and cool against her bare skin. Then it was the stockings that Lowry unrolled one leg at a time after Etta sat down, her skin flushing warm as the blood flowed and her muscles relaxed. She turned to face the mirror while Lowry fetched the washbasin, soap, and towel needed to remove the white face powder, bright rouge, and black eye charcoal from her face. Yet another part of this persona she’d become—Colletta Markshire, London socialite, hostess extraordinaire.
Trappings and fripperies replacing humanity. Blast Mr. Firth for putting such thoughts into her head. Making her question the only life she knew. Society needed structure and rules—there had to be proper ways to go about things.
“I would like my hair taken down tonight, Lowry.”
Lowry met her eyes in the mirror, and Etta nodded confirmation of the detour from their usual arrangement. She wore wigs every day and therefore kept her hair pinned for days at a time between washings. She’d washed her hair just yesterday. The maid did not hesitate long and began to unpin the coiled loops of hair. When she finished, Etta’s own hair hung nearly to the middle of her back in kinked and frizzy waves.Etta’s scalp throbbed almost to the point of being painful. It was a familiar sensation—it always felt this way when Etta took her hair down—and the feeling matched the similar sensation she felt in much of her body right now, undone as she was.
“Shall I put it in a sleeping braid?” Lowry asked.
“No, thank you. I shall manage. Good night, Lowry.”
After Lowry took the linens and left the room, Etta went to the basin and flipped her hair over to pour water from the pitcher over her head. She dried her hair with a towel, then brushed it out, long and smooth. She sat in front of her mirror and looked at her skin free of cosmetics, her hair free of pins, and her body free of the contraptions that kept her in fashion.
She noted the fine lines around her eyes and the texture of her skin that had once been smooth. Her sandy-blonde hair was streaked with grey, her small breasts soft beneath her dressing gown, and her waistline no longer held the contour it once did. Yet this was her body, her true self. The trappings were just that, trappings, decoration…distraction?
She stared for a long time, thinking over her interaction with Mr. Firth and not sure why it felt like so…much. Why did it feel important enough to think of at all?
