Page 31 of Rescued from Betrayal
“My lady?”
Without moving the blanket, she said, “Could you bring me some ice-cold water?”
“Cold, my lady?”
The question in the maid’s voice indicated how ridiculous she thought the request, but Melior did not care. Let them think she was eccentric. She’d used cold water to fix her face on other important occasions, and this was most definitely an important occasion. She would rather eat beetroot, nasty as it was, than let Sir Nathaniel know how his treatment had sent her to her bed in tears.
“Yes and be quick about it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The click of the door latch allowed her to pull back the blanket. She’d not be able to hide her blotchy face from the maid, but at least Sir Nathaniel would be none the wiser.
Picking up a brush, she began running it through her long dark tresses until they had a lovely shine. She’d not used rags in her hair so her normal false curls were non-existent. And the few around her face that she’d achieved with curling tongs were now gone.
The maid entered carrying a basin of water. She took one look at Melior and said, “Oh my, you poor dear.”
Pity was the last thing Melior needed. She’d cried enough today, so she chose to ignore the maid’s remarks, ordering her to bring the water and to make sure her pale pink dinner gown was pressed.
The woman deposited the basin in front of her but did not remove herself. “And what jewelry would you like this evening, my lady?”
Melior stared. She never chose jewelry until she was completely dressed, needing to assess her appearance to decide which piece suited the current circumstance. It was her routine.
She blinked at the maid in confusion. “I need my gown.”
The maid tipped her head to the side, a petulant hand on her hip. “And you will get it, but I need to know what to fetch to go with it. I was able to unpack a few things before your rest, but there are still others I must search out.”
Did all of Sir Nathaniel’s servants talk back as freely as this one?
A knock sounded on the door and the maid rushed to open it. Another woman, presumably an upstairs maid, entered with three pressed gowns over her arms. In the pile Melior recognized the one she sought.
While pink was not her best color, it allowed her to excuse any redness in her face as a trick of the light.
“Your dress, my lady.” The lady’s maid gestured, as she shook out the piece. “Now, which accents are you wanting?” Her words were firm as if she were the lady of the house instead of Melior.
She would need to put this one straight. “I do not choose jewelry until the gown is on.”
The maid’s lips pursed, but she finally set to work helping Melior dress.
Melior absently went through the motions as the two maids worked in tandem dressing her and putting the room to rights. They spoke in whispers to one another and their comradery made Melior acutely aware of her own loneliness. Thoughts of the never-ending months to come almost brought tears to her eyes again.
Perhaps it was a remnant of her silly childhood, but she’d always dreamed of love in her marriage, or at least mutual respect. Uncle Percy and Aunt Lucinda had cultivated such dreams long before her mother had put a stop to such nonsense. Memories of the little gestures her uncle made toward her aunt and the looks of adoration that passed between them filled her mind and broke her heart. She’d seen true affection, and while she’d not expected the level of connection her aunt and uncle had shared, she’d hoped for more felicity in marriage than her parents shared.
It was ridiculous, really. Not many people were lucky enough to have such a relationship. Why then did her heart refuse to listen to her mother’s logical cold reasoning? Marriages were for connection and to elevate one's family, not for personal comfort.
“Well, she’s a bit of a prima donna if you ask me,” one of the maids whispered.
Melior spun in her seat to stare at the two women by the closet, heads together. Her lady’s maid stared back in surprise, and the other maid reddened with the attention.
Slowly Melior rose from the dressing table, and, using her most aristocratic saunter, approached the guilty party. The maid’s shoulders hunched and she stared at the floor.
“Your name?” she asked with the eerie calmness that often made others squirm.
The woman peaked up. “Jenny, miss.”
Melior raised an imperious eyebrow at her impertinence.
“I… I mean, my lady.”
