‘‘Is Papa all right?’’ she had asked Miss Godwin, all concern.
Miss Godwin had made comforting noises and carried little Jane off to bed, her own cheeks wet with silent tears, her shoulders shaking like Papa’s, as hard as Jane Nichol’s shook now as she rocked back and forth, her fist pressed to her mouth.
The wet hem of her skirt had soaked her petticoats. Her legs were cold.
‘‘Oh, Mother,’’ she whispered as she stood to wring out the wet. ‘‘What silver surprise am I missing? ’Tis all soggy pudding, this.’’
The rack of clothes mocked her silently. They were dry, and perfect, a reminder of her past in so many ways, and yet she must remember they promised to throw her carefully constructed present into chaos.
Jane turned to the old mirror that had been tucked into the corner behind the door. Clouded at the edges, it had been removed from the dressing room, replaced by a newer, less timeworn cheval. The buxom, brightly dressed woman that stared back was still a stranger to her, not the picture of herself she carried in her head. Her frizzled brown wig was even more frizzled from exposure to the rain. Her oval spectacles were speckled with raindrops. The careful veneer of face powder and rouge was much besmeared by her tears.
Jane had to laugh, a tragic, pitiful gust of a laugh, as she took off the horn-rimmed spectacles that so completely dominated her face, and wiped at the streaked powder with the damp sleeve of her gown, exposing smooth, youthful flesh, complexion quite at odds with the sad horsehair wig and matronly mobcap.
A sight—a proper sight she was. She could not face customers looking like this. She needed a fresh powdering—dry clothes.
The wedding dress caught her eye, the ball gowns and walking dresses, morning and evening gowns, the capes, and pelisses, and negligees. Dry clothes. Beautiful dry clothes, so beautiful any young lady would be tempted to wear them.
The silver surprise of it made her smile as laughter filled her chest and shook the weight from her shoulders.
She rose to examine her choices with a devil-may-care tilt to her head, a daring idea taking hold—a silver surprise of an idea. She laughed again, and fingered the fall of satin flowers at the sleeve of the second ball gown.
A light rap came at the door, and Marie called out, ‘‘Madame, Mrs. Bower has gone. Shall I lock up?’’
‘‘S’il vous plait. Do not wait for me, Marie. I have a bit of work to do.’’ Jane fell into the French accent she affected without blinking, without thinking. It came so naturally now, the pretense.
Time to stop pretending, if only for an evening. What a relief it would be. What a joy.
She needed joy. It was a Season of joy, was it not?
She peeled off the dreadful wig and undid the ties on her dress. The false bosom fell away, the padded hips. She felt lighter, smaller—herself again. A different silhouette looked back at her from the mirror—a tear-streaked face, and swollen eyes. She ruffled her fingers through flattened flaxen tresses, exhaled heavily, and straightened her back with a rising sense of resolution.
Lord Fowler had left her with good advice if nothing else. His words still rang in her ears.
‘‘The duke must pay!’’
And so he must. It was a necessary solution. She needed the money desperately, and she would not allow His Grace to leave Bath before he had given it to her.
(This page constitutes an extension of the copyright page:)
‘‘An Object of Charity’’ by Carla Kelly. Copyright © Carla Kelly, 1999. First published in A Regency Christmas Present, 1999.
‘‘The Wexford Carol’’ by Emma Jensen. Copyright © Melissa Jensen, 2001. First published in Regency Christmas Spirits, 2001.
‘‘Mistletoe and Folly’’ by Sandra Heath. Copyright © Sandra Heath, 1991. First published in A Regency Christmas III, 1991.
‘‘Upon a Midnight Clear’’ by Amanda McCabe. Copyright © Ammanda McCabe, 2004. First published in Regency Christmas Magic, 2004.
Homespun Regency Christmas (9781101078716) Page 31