She swallowed hard. The rest of her life was a gloomy prospect. She would be trapped here with Mama and Father forever, a silent shadow in their household, constantly drawing their critical gaze. Unless she could escape and find work somewhere, that was her life. And what work could a baron’s daughter do? Being a governess would ruin her family’s reputation, and that was the best of the possible jobs she could take.
Unless Aunt has an answer.
She shut her eyes again, hope flooding through her. Aunt Rachel was her only chance of escaping her parents and the intractable problem of trying to be part of society whenshe simply couldn’t be. An elderly woman, kindly and good-hearted, Aunt Rachel was a dowager viscountess and capable of sustaining Bernadette in her household as a companion. She’d written to Aunt Rachel a week ago, requesting a position in her house, and she hoped that she would soon receive a reply.
“Milady? Are you in there, Miss Rowland?” Bernadette looked up at the sound of a voice at the door. It was Judy, her maid. She hurriedly stood up to see what the matter was.
“Judy. What is it?” she asked, calling through the door.
“Can I come in? I have your gown for this afternoon with me.”
“Please do,” Bernadette said kindly.
She watched as the door opened and Judy came in, a long red gown in her arms. She hung it up carefully on the wardrobe door. Bernadette felt her stomach twist. Mama would insist on red. It was the latest fashionable color. Even a trip to the modiste required one to look fashionable, it seemed—their modiste was in Bond Street, and to sashay down Bond Street was to draw the eyes of high society. Nothing, clearly, could be informal or simple in her mother’s world.
“Thank you,” Bernadette said dully.
“Milady? Do you feel unwell?” her maid asked kindly. Judy was her own age, with red hair that she wore tied back in a bun and a long, slim face.
“No...” Bernadette murmured. “Not really. I’m just tired. Itwas a long ball last night.”
“It was milady. Try and sleep,” Judy said kindly. “I’ll come directly if you need anything.”
“Thank you, Judy,” Bernadette whispered. She felt her throat tighten. At least someone in the household thought her health was worth caring about.
“Not at all, milady. Rest, now,” Judy murmured. “I’ll accompany you on a walk later, if you’d like to take the air.”
“Thank you, Judy,” Bernadette answered softly. “That would be very kind.”
Judy served as her chaperone as well as her maid, escorting her across town or to the shops or the park if she needed a walk. It was a good arrangement, since Judy genuinely was caring and kind, and Bernadette felt safer on the London streets with her than she would have with anyone else.
“Mayhap I should visit Viola,” she told her reflection as Judy slipped silently out through the door. The day already seemed somewhat colder, the rain that their butler, Mr. Hadley, had gloomily predicted, blowing in from the west. A walk didn’t seem a pleasant prospect and she sat down on the bed.
Her reflection gazed back at her from the surface of the dressing-table mirror. Her large hazel-brown eyes were blank, her pale oval face expressionless. She studied her features intently, trying to see just what it was that made her so easy to ignore. She had a thin nose, a mouth like a small, pert bow, and dark brows and lashes. Her hair was a soft brown, the color ofdarkish honey, and her chin a dainty knob. Her face was a little serious, perhaps, with pale skin and an oval shape. Her hair was quite thick, and her neck long and gracious.
“What is wrong with me?” she whispered to her reflection.
No answer came to her. Perhaps it was just that there was no particular flair in her looks—she didn’t have the lustrous black eyes, or the wondrous blonde curls so admired in society. She was not curvaceous and pretty like Lady Cobham’s daughters, nor tall and elegant like Lady Beatrice, their neighbor’s daughter, who was admired wherever she went. She was personable enough, but not striking.
“A pox on it,” she whispered, cheeks burning with sadness, and then with embarrassment at her mild swearing. She sighed. She couldn’t sit there in her room all afternoon—she'd drive herself mad. Occupying her mind was necessary.
Her thoughts drifted to her father as she stood and walked to the door. He seemed unusually preoccupied at breakfast. Normally, he was more talkative, but he’d been gazing at her speculatively and she wondered what was on his mind.
Nothing that concerns me, or he’d tell me.
One thing, she told herself wryly, was that her parents didn’t spare her. Whatever Father was thinking, no matter how horrid it might be, he’d be sure to tell her.
She reached the drawing room and sat down at the pianoforte. Large and graciously made, with ivory keys and brass candle holders, the pianoforte was her favorite thing aboutthe London house. It had belonged to her grandmother, who had been, by all accounts, an excellent pianist. Bernadette rested her hands on the keys. Nobody could criticize her own performance at the pianoforte. That was one thing that she excelled at and one thing that made her feel safe.
She reached up to the shelf where the music was kept, grateful to Mrs. Sedgewick, her music tutor, who had ensured that all the latest works were supplied to the household. Her parents likely wouldn’t have bothered to buy sheet music for her, even though it was her dearest interest in the world. There were enough music books in the house for their daughter to seem accomplished and that was all they had wanted when they found her a tutor.
She settled down at the pianoforte, her fingers finding the notes. Dreamy, sad music drifted through the room, and she shut her eyes as she played.
“My lady?”
Bernadette whipped round to find Mr. Hadley, the butler, there in the doorway. She smiled, relieved that it was him. He was not about to criticize or reprimand her.
“Yes? What is it?”
