Page 21 of A Bluestocking for the Wicked Duke
She closed the verandah door and caught her reflection in the mirror hanging on the closed door. Her hair was smooth, just as smooth as it was when she had brushed it that morning. Her father always said that before her mother died, she gave her flowing brown hair, just like hers. Joane had never seen her mother who died while giving birth to her. She had seen paintings of her and her brothers provided enough vivid descriptions to know how her mother looked.
She looked at her nose, small and shapely. It was in contrast to the shape of her mouth which formed a thin line most of the time. Her skin had a milky white texture, unlike her father and two elder brothers who looked as red as beets most times. Joane looked downwards to her breasts; she remembered when she had been scared she wouldn’t grow any.
She had developed late, coming into womanhood when most of her mates were already there. But when she did change, the transformation was incredible. Joane looked at herself and knew that she was beautiful. She smiled but reminded herself to never be vain about it. Beauty did not guarantee true love.
She remembered when she was still schooling in France, French boys never gave her rest. They all wanted to court the beautiful English girl. That was how she met Emma. Emma was there on a visit but was already notorious for the harsh way she handled men. Joane didn’t know how to completely reject a man and make him stop coming; Emma was an expert in such matters. She drafted names for each admirer: Stammerer, English boy, Water, Espanya. She called them exclusively by those names which were too embarrassing for them to stick around for long.
When Joane finally came back to England, Emma decided to come along with her. She decided her travels with her father had become draining so she chose to stay around her friend.
Joane was still reminiscing by the mirror when her friend came into the room.
“What are you doing by the mirror?” Emma asked her.
Joane looked at her friend. Emma was everything Joane wasn’t physically. She was short and blonde. She was pleasing to look at, not as beautiful as her friend but pretty enough with a sprinkling of freckles. Most of her features were small like she was; only her sharp mouth seemed bigger than her. Joane always joked that Emma could talk a house down.
Although about her friend’s age, Emma was far more travelled than her friend and as a result had a queer accent that was impossible to place when speaking. Her father was a silk trader who owned ships. He travelled across Europe to Asia and Africa to get good quality and had been taking Emma along with him from the age of seven. Emma had travelled far and wide, mixing with cultures, meeting people and learning diverse languages. She had met Joane in Marseille a year ago. The girl was schooling and was beset by admirers. Joane didn’t look remotely ready to deal with them so one day Emma helped her get rid of one. Joane never left her side since.
When Joane was coming to England, she invited Emma to come stay with her. Emma reminded Joane her father also had a house in London, she chose to stay there. She came to the Duke’s house everyday to meet her friend now.
“Nothing much, is father still talking about the way he cheated William Marlow out of his win?” Joane asked her friend.
“Do you mean the men in the parlour surrounding your father like he is a barrel of ale at the ale house? Yes, he is still with them,” Emma said.
Joane shook her head at her friend’s speech and laughed.
“I don’t think it wise that your father keeps telling all his visitors how he went about his victory,” Emma said.
“His dishonourable victory you mean to say,” Joane added. “Don’t mince words because he is my father. He was hardly a father to me.”
Emma walked to her friend and held her shoulder.
“He paid for your tuition while in France. Be grateful,” Emma said.
“He sent me to France so he could get me off his hands,” Joane retorted.
“Even you know that you are your father’s favourtite which isn’t necessarily a good thing. It does give you great standing with him though,” Emma replied her.
Joane said nothing, preferring to stare at her reflection. She picked a brush from the shelf desk close to her and started brushing her hair.
“Are you already brushing today what you want to use on Friday?” Emma asked her.
“Tomorrow is Friday,” Joane answered.
“Okay let me reorganize my words then, so are you brushing today what you intend to use tomorrow?”
“What is happening tomorrow?” Joane turned to her friend to ask.
“There is a party at the Viscount’s house, Viscount Patrick,” Emma answered.
“Oh dear, that is true. We’ll attend of course,” Joane said.
“You speak like you have your attire ready. I don’t,” Emma said.
Joane smiled and went to her wardrobe, she pushed it open. Inside laid rows and rows of gowns, blouses, corsets, trousers, skirts and other clothing accessories. There were in their hundreds, some styled in French and others in English. Joane pointed to the rows of clothes.
“I am not in need of clothes and so are you. You own more than double the number I have. Don’t speak like you will be in a haste to sew one for tomorrow,” Joane said.
“I know, I know,” Emma said, covering her face in with Joane’s fan in mock abashment. “Don’t praise me too much.”
