“A little overfilled, but I can manage,” she said. “I daresay you have much to learn.”
“Would you like a slice of cake?” Meggie asked.
“Oh, good Lord, no!” Elizabeth laughed. “A lady cannot be expected to eat it—not when supper is imminent. Madame Deliet would despair of me if I necessitated the purchase of another gown.”
Dexter took a slice of cake. “Elizabeth, I’ll wager you visit Madame Deliet every week, regardless of whether your size increases.”
“But, if I recall, Dexter, you prefer a slimmer form,” Elizabeth said. “When we last visited Madame Deliet together, you said it was evidence of self-restraint, and therefore the mark of a true lady.”
She smoothed down the front of her dress, as if to demonstrate her gamine frame, then cast her glance over Meggie’s rounder, curvier figure.
“Madame asked after you, Dexter,” Elizabeth continued. “She was most put out when I told her you’d married, for you’d promised to employ her services for your bride’s gown.”
“I’m sure your regular visits are enough to offset any disappointment Madame harbors as a result of my no longer patronizing her,” Dexter said, “whatever they may cost your father.”
“A lady must maintain her wardrobe,” Elizabeth said. “Isn’t that so, Margaret?”
“I-I don’t know,” Meggie stammered.
Elizabeth’s lip curled into a smile, which could be interpreted as a sneer.
“Of course, how foolish of me to assume!” she laughed. “Who is your modiste?”
“My what?” Meggie asked.
What the devil was a modiste?
“My wife has not yet had the opportunity to engage a modiste,” Dexter said.
“Then I recommend she does so at once,” Elizabeth said. “Madame Deliet is somewhat discerning over her customers, but I daresay she’d be willing to accommodate her on my recommendation.”
“At considerable expense to myself, Miss Alderley.”
“My dear Dexter, it would be an investment, not an expense,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure Madame would be prepared to travel here to see your wife. She’s very particular about who is seen going into and out of her establishment, given her clientele' exclusivity. I can write on your behalf.”
“That’s not necessary,” Dexter said.
“Nonsense!” came the reply. “There’s much to be gained from giving your wife the appearance of a lady.”
“That may be,” he replied, “but I’m perfectly capable of engaging a modiste for her.”
Was Meggie invisible, that they saw fit to discuss her without acknowledging or asking for her opinion?
“Well, at the very least, you must engage a proper lady’s maid,” Elizabeth continued.
“Whatever for?” Dexter asked.
“Good lord, Dexter!” Elizabeth laughed. She turned her attention to Meggie. “Margaret, my dear,” she said, speaking as if Meggie was a child. “You need a proper French maid.”
“Why would I need a French maid?”
Elizabeth gestured toward the cascade of curls, adorning her head. “Only a French maid knows how to treat a lady’s hair properly. Whoever you’ve engaged to tend to your hair, my dear…” She shook her head and sighed. “…At the very least, she should be dismissed, though I’d also recommend a thrashing.”
Meggie froze at the stripes' memory along Milly’s back, though healing, still pained the young maid. Did Elizabeth know Meggie didn’t have a lady’s maid? Was this her way of saying that Meggie deserved to be thrashed?
“Mistress Elizabeth…” she began. Dexter raised his eyebrows at her form of address but said nothing.
“Take it from one who knows and wishes to help,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Whoever styled your hair lacks skill and, I daresay, intended to insult, rather than serve, her mistress.” She turned to Meggie’s husband. “Dexter, an errant servant must be dismissed. If the mistress is incapable, then the master must direct.”
“My dear Miss Alderley,” he said, “you set too much store on looks.”
“As do you, if I recall,” she replied. “You once told me that the scarlet gown I wore to Lady Strathdean’s card party rendered me goddess-like, and that had I been a plain-faced little miss…” she glanced at Meggie, “…you’d never have given me the time of day.”
“Miss Alderley…”
“You must take my counsel on the matter of a modiste,” Elizabeth said.
“Madame Deliet is not the only modiste in town,” Dexter replied. “Madame Dupont has an excellent reputation and is perhaps more suited to a woman such as my wife. The Duchess of Westbury patronizes her.”
“That plump little commoner!” Elizabeth scoffed. “How the devil did she snare a duke?”
“She’s an amiable woman,” Dexter said, “and Westbury’s an excellent man.
Alderley let out a snort. “Duchess she may be,” he said, “but she’s a commoner by birth.”
“As am I,” Dexter said.
Alderley opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Meggie took a mouthful of fruitcake. Did her husband only value a woman who was dressed in extravagant finery, with a body as thin as a railing?
A woman such as my wife.
What had he meant? That she was the commoner he regretted marrying, compared to the lady he’d wanted?
Tea concluded, Dexter directed their guests to their rooms to rest before dinner, and Meggie fled to her chamber. How would she even begin to make herself look presentable for tonight? But Elizabeth would, most likely, taunt her however she looked.
The woman loathed Meggie and wanted to bed her husband.
The question was—did he want to be bedded?
***
“Curse it!” Meggie exclaimed as the pin pricked her finger for the fourth time. Why could the damned things not stay in?
She pulled the remaining pins out of her hair, and it fell round her face in loose, limp tresses. Her hair refused to be curled into elegance—it possessed a will of its own.
She had seen little need to engage a maid. The notion of having another at her beck and call, performing tasks she could undertake herself, was neither right nor fair. But Mrs. Wells had explained that the lady’s maid position was highly sought after and that a maid did not only dress her mistress or style her hair. She was a respected confidante—a friend, even.
Elizabeth’s maid was unlikely to be treated as such. Meggie had passed the girl on her way to her chamber, and her heart had stung at the way she’d bobbed into a curtsey and mumbled her apology before scuttling off as if she feared Meggie would have her beaten for being seen abovestairs.
She grasped her hair, brushed it out again, and twisted it behind her head, then, holding it in place with her left hand, she picked up a pin with her right and drove it in, wincing at the stabbing sensation. She picked up another and another until there must have been at least a dozen pins in her hair.
Meggie lowered her hands and studied her reflection. Not as elegant as Elizabeth, but a ribbon or two might conceal the imperfections. She reached for a ribbon, and a pin fell out, causing part of her hair to tumble down.