Page 8 of Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly
"I'm off to my dressmaker's after that." She had to build in a few chores so that her mother, who could no longer track days or weeks, would not say she had not informed her that she had left the house.
"Good. Tell that witch I need a new ballgown. The last one she sewed was a disgrace. Your father said so. Would not permit me to wear it. That's why I'm in this hideous sack! He tore it to shreds. Beast." She nailed Fifi with her fierce brown gaze. "You will tell her?"
"I promise."
"Because you didn't yesterday."
Fifi had to go along with this. Dear god. When would this nightmare ever end? "I shall tell her, Mama. Now I bid youadieu. I must run before all the good items are snatched up!"
She bent to kiss her mother's papery cheek.
The woman sniffed. "You put on good perfume. Why? For the butcher? He's not for you, my chick."
"No, Mama. I wouldn't tempt the butcher."
"I should say not! But your father has the bad grace to swive the butcher's wife."
Oh, no. Mama's most scurrilous rant. The one with a thousand faces of Eve and only one villain, her brutal, philandering husband, thankfully dead, may the devil torment his soul.
"I'm leaving. Be good, Mama. Pritchard will be in immediately!"
She smiled falsely, then spun, her fear pricking at her skin that she might not escape this never-ending chaos, not for a day or two or four. Her heart pounded that she must leave for a brief glimpse of heaven.
But then she’d return, wouldn’t she? Return here to the depths of the hell that was her daily existence.
* * *
"I cannot tellyou how grateful I am that you thought of this little ploy." Fifi smiled, relieved and overjoyed to be away from home. Even if it was for the dubious task of seeing her conniving cousin Esme Harvey marry the man Fifi thought had been hers, she had escaped the house and her dreary responsibilities.
For a while, at the least.
And one consolation was the very good time Fifi had at her dressmaker's. She wore a new sapphire silk redingote and beneath, a sea blue gown that exactly matched her eyes. She'd checked that in the dressmaker's mirror. Often. And nothing gave her confidence like an addition to her wardrobe. "I haven't had such a good time at my seamstress's in years."
"And she did well by you." Mary gazed out the dirty window of their hired coach.
Fifi sighed. Only a few more minutes and they'd be in Chippenham. The little town was not far from Courtland Hall and her uncle, Lord Courtland had promised to send his own traveling coach into town to take Fifi and Mary the next three miles to his home.
Fifi relaxed into the cushions, much as one could in the rickety old thing. Despite her dismay at Esme for snatching up the marquess whom Fifi had always thought should court her, she was no longer angry at her cousin. She simply wanted a few days of peace and fun. To that end, she'd also apologized to Mary for her churlish behavior the other day. Mary had accepted, saying she was always pleased that Fifi was forgiving of others and that she never held a grudge. Fifi took that as a compliment. Life was too short and definitely too bitter to make more problems by acting mean or spiteful.
She brushed her hand down her coat. "I needed a few new gowns. To help me face the gentleman I'm to marry." She fluttered her lashes like a conspirator at Mary, then at Mary's lady's maid, Welles, who sat across from them. Courtland Hall was a grand house, but each year those invited to the Frolic were so numerous that the ladies could take only one maid between them. Fifi was not demanding, nor was Mary. So Welles cared for them both.
Mary grinned at her reference to their agreement about gentlemen.
Fifi inhaled the crisp spring air. "So I didn't mind the expense. Mama needs for nothing these days. Poor dear. She always loved a party. And she especially always adored this one. Yesterday, she had a moment of clarity and asked me what time of year it was and would I go to Courtland Hall." She never told Mary any of the lurid statements her mother would blurt. She was too embarrassed and more often than not, too ashamed. "When I said I would, she beamed at me. 'Dance,ma sirène,' she said. So I humored her and told her I would stand up for each one."
"Really?" Mary squeezed Fifi's gloved hand.
Fifi opened her mouth to object. She claimed to have no rhythm and longed to sit out every ditty.
"You will dance? Ha! That meansI'llplay cards."
Fifi threw her a rueful glance. "You should dance.I'llplay cards!"
"And rob the men blind?" Mary chuckled, but rubbed her thigh, an old injury that prevented her from ever taking to a chalked floor with a man. "Not the way to a man's heart, Fifi."
"I don't want any man's heart." That sad thought was one she'd had often lately. What man would want to be associated with a mother-in-law who was unnerving. Indeed that was the nicest word Fifi could put to her mother's behavior. "I just want his agreement to appear that I have it. For three days only." She wrinkled her dark brows. "I keep trying to figure out which man I should approach."
"What of Lord Marleigh? A polite young man. Eyes black as licorice. Dances well."
