Page 63 of Marry in Haste
Emm had examined her reflection, turning her head this way and that. Her hair was naturally curly—Papa had called it “perpetually untidy”—and she’d always kept it long so she could keep it in a neat bun. Monsieur Phillipe had left it long at the back, but all around her face tiny soft curls clustered.
Papa would have hated it, but Emm was almost breathless. Who knew she could look so...? She was almost pretty.
Seeing her reaction, the hairdresser clucked with satisfaction. “See, Monsieur Phillipealwaysknow what will suit a lady—better than the lady,n’est-ce pas? I soften ze faceand emphasize ze vairy fine cheekbones for you, mademoiselle. And with no need of ze curling irons.”
“Thank you, Monsieur,” Emm murmured.
“Now I suggest you have your maid gather it up like so, perhaps with two leetle braids, like so, and then—”
“I don’t have a maid,” Emm told him. “I will be doing my hair myself.”
Monsieur Phillipe staggered back in theatrical Gallic shock. “Oh,non non non! It cannot be! I do not expend my artistry on a lady, only to have her do itherself!”
“But I’m perfectly capable. I’ve been doing my own hair all my life.”
He dismissed that argument with a “Tsst!” and a scornful wave. He sent for Miss Mallard and after she’d been directed to admire his genius, he declared, “But ze lady has no maid of her own, and It Will Not Do!”
“Good heavens, you are quite right, Monsieur. I should have thought of it earlier. I will contact the employment agency at once. They will send some up lady’s maids for interview—”
“That’s not necessary,” Emm said.
“But you must have your own personal maid,” Miss Mallard insisted. “You have a position to maintain.” Monsieur Phillipe nodded vigorously. “If you enter Lord Ashendon’s home without your own maid,” Miss Mallard continued, “all the servants will look down on you.”
Emm lifted her chin. “I don’t care.” She wouldn’t allow anyone to look down on her, servants or not.
“Perhaps not, but Lord Ashendon will.”
It was Miss Mallard’s second favorite saying, a clincher to every argument—Lord Ashendon will expect—and the devil of it was, Emm had no basis to argue back. She barely knew Lord Ashendon, let alone what he expected or wanted. As far as she knew, “no trouble” best summed up what she knew of his wants. Would arriving without a maid be classed as trouble or not? What did she know of what earls expected?
“Very well, if I must have a maid, I will take Milly with me.”
Miss Mallard snorted. “Milly? My housemaid? Nonsense, that girl isn’t trained to be a lady’s maid.”
“Vairy true.” Monsieur Phillipe nodded wisely. “You must have a girl who knows how to care for ze hair and clothes.”
“Then she will learn. Will you be so kind as to show her how to do my hair, Monsieur?” Emm asked. “Because I will take Milly or no one.”
Milly was kind and clever and at Miss Mallard’s she scrubbed and cleaned from dawn to midnight—and still thought to put a hot brick—unasked—into Emm’s bed. The counterarguments flew around the room, but Emm stayed firm. It would be Milly or no one—as long as Milly agreed. Emm thought she’d jump at the chance.
Milly, summoned, had arrived at the door, pale and worried-looking and smoothing her dress with nervous hands. It took her a moment to comprehend what Emm was saying, and when she did, her whole face lit up. “Oh, miss, you mean I’m to come with you and be your lady’s maid? In London? Truly?”
Smiling, Emm nodded. “If you’d like to.”
“Would I like to? I’ll say I would!” Milly glanced at Miss Mallard’s pinched expression and added tactfully, “Of course I’ll be sad to leave Miss Mallard’s, but if you think I could be of help, Miss Westwood, I’d be glad to work for you.” Her eyes were shining.
“Then that’s settled,” Emm said. She was spending more of Lord Ashendon’s money, but if a maid was something he’d expect her to have, she had no option.
Monsieur Phillipe pursed his lips and then snapped his fingers. “Come here then, girl, and let me see what you can do.” Under his critical supervision Milly arranged Emm’s hair.
Eventually he sniffed and said, “It will do. Now, remember what I said, start simple and practice at every opportunity. I will, of course, style Miss Westwood’s ’air for ze wedding, but after that you will be on your own. There are schoolgirls here—practice on them.” He arched a brow at Miss Mallard, who gave a grudging nod. “Come to myparlor and I will provide you with all the implements you will need for ze lady’s hair. I will also give you some cream for your hands. Your skin is rough, like a scrubbing girl’s. A lady’s maid must have hands like silk, understand me, girl?”
“Yes, sir.” Milly curtseyed.
“Send the bill to Lord Ashendon,” Miss Mallard said crisply. Which was, Emm knew, Miss Mallard’s new favorite saying.
And now the wedding day had arrived, cold, but bright with sunshine.
Milly, after helping Emm to dress, had gone ahead to the church with the girls. Miss Mallard had wanted her to help Cook, but since she’d already engaged extra staff for the event, Emm had insisted. Milly worked for her now, and she wanted her at the wedding.
