Page 23 of The Heiress's Daughter
The problem wasn’t the dress.
“You look very nice, miss,” her maid Betty said, hovering at her elbow. “That soft peach color is perfect for you.”
“Thank you, Betty.” She tried to banish her father’s voice:Can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.
“And the dress is beautifully cut.”
She sighed. “I know.” It was her own shape that was less than beautiful. But try as she might, she could never slim down enough to look as dainty and sylphlike as Izzy. And though Betty had arranged her hair well, nothing could make her beautiful, and she so wished she were beautiful. Or at least pretty.
Might as well sigh for the moon.
“Then why are you frowning?” Zoë said from her perch on the window seat.
“I’m not,” Clarissa said. “I’m just a little bit…nervous.” It wasn’t why she’d been frowning at her reflection, but thinking about it, she was feeling quite nervous about tonight’s ball. In fact, for two pins she’d cancel.
Surely she’d conquered her nervousness about big social occasions? They’d been in London for weeks now.
“Just missing Miss Izz—Lady Salcott—I’ll be bound.” Betty laughed. “I’m never going to remember, am I? To think of our Miss Izzy, a countess!” She reached up and adjusted the sprig of tiny silk roses she’d fastened to the back of Clarissa’s hair. “But Mrs. Price-Jones will be with you, won’t she?”
“Yes, of course.” It was the first time in years that Clarissa had attended any social event without her sister—in fact, had she ever gone anywhere without Izzy? No wonder she was feeling a little unsettled. But that was foolish. Now that Izzy was married, Clarissa would have to become more independent. She forced a smile. “You’ve done a lovely job with my hair, Betty. Thank you.”
She turned again to look at her reflection and Betty turned with her. “You look just like your mam, miss. She’d be that proud of you, going out and about, hobnobbing with the highest in the land.”
Clarissa swallowed the lump in her throat. Betty was right. Poor Mama would have been thrilled that Clarissa was making a proper come-out in London society. Papa had never even allowed Mama to visit London, let alone attend any society event. Mama wasn’t up to Papa’s high standards, he used to say, and it would embarrass him to be seen with her, so plain and unsophisticated was she.
And Clarissa was the image of her mother. What was it Papa had said that time, his voice rich with scorn?You can dress her up all you like;if it wasn’t for that blasted fortune, no man would look twice at her.And variations on it numerous times since.
Her belief in her intrinsic unattractiveness had sunk into her long before she was even aware of it, long before she had found Izzy.
She eyed her image sternly. Plain and unsophisticated she might be, but she had every right to happiness. And like it had been for Mama, Grandfather Iverley’s fortune was in trust for her which, for many, made up for any flaws and inadequacies she might have.
Not that she wanted a man who wanted her only for her fortune. That had been Mama’s mistake.
The dress Miss Chance had made for her was lovely, and it suited her well, she knew. And what was it Miss Chance said so often?Every woman is beautiful in her own way…
Clarissa thought of Lady Scattergood, whose face was a mass of wrinkles, and yet intelligence and kindness shone from her eyes. And she wore her odd, unfashionable assortment of clothing with such an air, she looked striking anyway. There was definitely beauty in her.
And the key to bein’ beautiful,Miss Chance had added,is that first you gotta feel beautiful and then people will start to notice that youarebeautiful. It’s all in your attitude.
Hearing the little dressmaker’s voice in her mind, Clarissa straightened. How to feel beautiful when you knew you weren’t?
You pretended.
She was good at pretending. For the first eight and a half years she had pretended she had an imaginary sister to share her secrets with and tell her dreams to. And then just before her ninth birthday she’d found Izzy hiding in the shrubbery, eavesdropping on Papa telling someone to dump Izzy in the nearest orphan asylum. A real, flesh-and-blood sister. And so Clarissa had kept her.
Clarissa glanced at her reflection again and lifted her chin. She would pretend then that she was beautiful and confidentand all the other things that she was not. And hope that her secret dream would come true.
It was worth a try. Better than feeling plain and unattractive and unwanted except for Grandfather Iverley’s fortune.
“Are you ready, my love?” Mrs. Price-Jones said from the doorway. “Look at you! Such a picture you make.”
Clarissa smiled. “And you, Mrs. Price-Jones.”
Her chaperone chuckled. “We’ll dazzle them, will we not?”
“We certainly will.” Her chaperone had a penchant for bright colors, and tonight she was dressed in bright yellow silk, with dark red and green piping in rows around the neckline, hem and sleeves. Around her shoulders she’d draped an embroidered, multicolored shawl—one of Lady Scattergood’s, Clarissa thought—and on her head she wore a large emerald green turban—another of Lady Scattergood’s shawls—with three purple feathers. It shouldn’t have worked, but somehow it did. Altogether she looked like a cheerful, multicolored parrot.
Smiling, Clarissa linked her arm with Mrs. Price-Jones’s and they proceeded down the stairs to the waiting carriage. With such a blatantly exuberant companion, it was impossible to remain downcast.
