Page 48 of Unmasked by the Marquess
Louisa slept most of the day, waking only to tearfully apologize or ask after Gilbert. Charity felt her patience in great danger of slipping.Bollocks on Gilbert, she wanted to shout. Bugger the daft bastard. If he hadn’t broken his arm in the accident she would have broken it for him, for having convinced Louisa that she needed to elope.
She was likely being unfair to the gentleman, but wasn’t feeling very just-minded, under the circumstances.
If only she had a book to read aloud to soothe Louisa and amuse herself. The Trouts had a Bible and a cookery book, neither of which suited Charity’s current mood. While she was listing things she wanted and wouldn’t get, she wouldn’t have complained about a hot bath or comfortable clothing. Maybe also one of those sweet buns they sold on the street in London. A glass of wine, a cheroot, any way out of this mess...
She woke to the sensation of nearly toppling out of the straight-backed chair. Immediately, she darted a glance at Louisa, but her chest was rising and falling in the usual manner.
Around midday, Mrs. Trout brought a package. Charity tore it open. Well, well. Alistair had been busy. The only message was a note from Gilbert to Louisa, but the other contents were unmistakably Alistair’s doing. There was a selection of novels, a packet of lemon drops, and two gowns.
The farmer’s wife had been standing right there when Charity opened the parcel, so Charity had no choice but to change into one of the new gowns and give Mrs. Trout back her own frock. The woman likely didn’t have more than two dresses, so it would be unreasonable of Charity to keep wearing this one when she had an alternative, even if she didn’t like the idea of wearing a dress Alistair had chosen for her.
To be fair, she didn’t like the idea of wearing any dress at all, but Alistair having a hand in the matter sat ill with her.
Both dresses were printed cotton round gowns with high necks, the sort of thing Louisa wore to pick apples and oversee the cheese-making. Nothing fancy or fine, thank God. No trim, no lace. She shook one of the dresses out and inspected it at arm’s length, as if she thought a spider might crawl out from between its folds. There was a closure on the side, so she could dress herself without assistance. If she absolutely had to wear a dress, she could hardly do better than this one. The second gown was much the same as the first.
The chemises were a different story. There were five of them, each made of handkerchief-fine linen. What did the man think, she was, a Russian princess? Five chemises, indeed. She took off Mrs. Trout’s clothes and slid into a chemise. It was insubstantial, nothing more solid than the film on top of scalded milk, just the thing to give a laundress an apoplexy. Next she wriggled into one of the dresses. It was a shade of dark bluish gray that looked like wet slate.
And it fit. Had Alistair actually gone to a dress shop in—Charity really had no idea where they were, other than Bedfordshire—and described Charity’s dimensions? Had he used his hands to sketch out her measurements? “About so wide across the shoulders, with breasts no bigger than duck eggs.” If so, he had done a decent job of it. He must have memorized her body the couple of times he had seen it up close.
That wasn’t at all the thing to think about right now, though.
The fabric felt smooth against her skin. She had gotten spoiled by her fine London clothes; Mrs. Trout’s homespun felt like sandpaper by comparison. The chemise’s soft linen was a blessed relief, and the cambric of the gown skimmed over her body in a mostly unobjectionable way.
“You look well in that.” It was Louisa. Her eyes were open and she had turned her head slightly on the pillow to gaze at Charity.
“I feel like an idiot.” She felt like she was in costume. But maybe she could think of Louisa’s convalescence as an extended fancy dress party.
“I hope you feel like a pretty idiot, at least.”
Pretty? Of all the nonsense. “It’s from Pembroke.”
“He knows?” She made an effort to sit up in bed, then fell back against the pillows, wincing in pain. “That you’re not a man, I mean.”
“The doctor said you’re not to try sitting until he’s seen you again.” Charity turned her attention to the cuffs of the gown. “He’s known for weeks.” As she fiddled with the gown—it had pockets, she was pleased to discover—she felt Louisa regarding her intently.
“Why ever didn’t you tell me?” she finally said.
Whyhadn’tshe told Louisa? If she had been frank with Louisa, she might have spared them all this misadventure. “At first, because I didn’t want you to worry about us being discovered. No, wait, before you scold me, because it only gets worse. Later I didn’t tell you because I was going to bed with him.” No sense in making only a half confession.
Louisa’s eyes opened wide. “Charity,” she breathed. “Did he force you?”
“No! Nothing like that!” She sat on the edge of the bed and took one of Louisa’s hands. “I told you I was fond of him.”
Louisa shook her head, which must have caused her pain because she then grimaced. “I knew he was up to no good with you. I knew it! But Gilbert and I thought he was trying to use his influence to persuade you to... oh, never mind. I never dreamt that he was coercing you into his bed.”
“He didn’t. I promise. He and I are friends.”
Louisa was silent for several minutes. “I didn’t want to do anything that might get you in trouble with a man like him, especially since you’ve worked so hard and gone to such trouble to give me a chance to marry well. So I thought Gilbert and I could elope, and then it would be done. Nobody could undo it, and it wouldn’t be your fault.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “But now I feel like a fool.”
“So do I. If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own affairs, maybe I’d have noticed that you were distressed.” Charity ought to have guessed that Louisa would have a good reason for acting as she did. She grinned as brightly as she could. “Since we both feel embarrassed, let’s just dispense with it altogether. Declare embarrassment bankruptcy, as it were.”
Louisa smiled faintly. “You do look pretty in that dress, though. It’s the color. It does something to your eyes.”
Alistair had said much the same thing about her silver-blue waistcoat, hadn’t he? Had he picked this dress out with that in mind? It was an uncomfortable reminder of the price she might have to pay to be with him: fine chemises and pretty gowns, and a lifetime of feeling like an impostor in her own life. Mrs. Trout stuck her head into the room. “Pardon, ma’am, but I don’t know what to do with the goose.”
“The goose?” Charity and Louisa spoke at the same time.
“The goose as was sent over with the package,” the woman explained.
