Betsy had met Her Grace, the Duchess of Eversley, several times. She was a plump lady with her son’s beautiful bone structure, but her eyes were quite different. His were solemn. Hers were bright. Confident. She was . . . Betsy searched for the right word.
Capricious.
That was it: The Duchess of Eversley was her opposite. Betsy watched every gesture and facial expression to make certain that no one could judge her by her mother’s mistakes. Whereas the Duchess of Eversley expressed herself freely, and the self she expressed was unique.
To put it mildly.
“Oh!” Winnie squealed. She dropped the gown she was holding onto the bed, darted back over to the wardrobe, and pulled open a door. “I have an idea what you should wear this morning. This dress!”
It was a pale rose silk with a violet petticoat, a gown that Parth’s fiancée, Lavinia, had ordered for Betsy in London.
“I was saving that for a special day,” Betsy reminded her.
“Today is a special day,” Winnie said, her fingers flying over the gown’s fastenings. “Last night you refused Lord Greywick’s hand in marriage. Today his mother will seek you out and demand to know why you rejected her son.”
“Surely not,” Betsy said, somewhat horrified. “No other mother has done such a thing.”
“Her son will be a duke,” Winnie said, as if that explained everything. “Do you know that Her Grace always wears pink?” She deftly turned Betsy and began lacing her corset. “Everything, including her shoes, must be pink. Except her undergarments, of course. Carper asked Her Grace’s maid about her intimates and got a sharp reprimand from Mr. Prism. But not before she answered. They are white.”
Betsy couldn’t remember the color she herself wore to dinner a week ago, and she certainly hadn’t noted Her Grace’s penchant for pink.
“Why?” she asked, keeping it simple.
“The duchess believes in the healing power of the color,” Winnie said.
“Oh.”
“Lord Greywick is ever such a good son. He has a pink coat and pantaloons that he ordered solely so that he can wear them when his mother is worried about his health.”
“An excellent point in favor of marrying him,” Betsy said, though she privately felt unenthusiastic about a man in pink pantaloons.
“I would put the title first,” Winnie said, and then, with a giggle, “followed by his thighs. His legs are very fine for a man of his stature.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Betsy said. She truly hadn’t noticed. That suggested that Thaddeus would make a good spouse. She hadn’t the faintest interest in sleeping with him.
She probably ought to marry him.
“There you are,” Winnie said sometime later. In Her Grace’s honor, Betsy wore the pink dress, with pink ribbons rather than powder in her hair.
“This doesn’t mean that I agree to marry Thaddeus,” Betsy said, staring at herself in the glass.
“Thaddeus?” Winnie’s eyebrows flew up. “You have never referred to any other suitor by his first name, Lady Betsy.”
Betsy’s bodice was a trifle lower than she liked. “Please hand me a fichu,” she said to Winnie.
“That bodice is absurdly high! It’s practically at your collarbone, and by rights it should skim your nipples.”
Betsy shook her head. “A fichu, Winnie.”
Her maid sighed and handed over a square of silver lace. Betsy folded it into a triangle, put it around her neck, and tucked the ends into her bodice.
She opened the door and almost collided into one of her sisters running down the corridor. “Viola!” she cried. “Where are you going?”
Viola turned around and ran back in her direction. “Joan needs a dentist,” she gasped. “We rang for Prism, but no one came, so I think the footmen must be busy putting people into their carriages. The courtyard is crowded with vehicles.”
“She has a sore tooth?”
“Aunt Knowe says it must be pulled. It’s in the very back, and it’s making the other teeth ache as well. All night Joan kept groaning and clutching her jaw. Hot flannel isn’t working, and neither is a cut onion.”
“How unpleasant for her.” Betsy turned to go to the nursery, but Viola caught her arm.
“Mother said to tell everyone to stay away. You know how Joan is; she hates crying when anyone can see her. She even asked me to leave.”
“Oh, but—”
“No,” Viola said firmly, pulling her in the other direction. “We shall tell Prism about the dentist, and then you must go in to breakfast. I expect Lord Greywick is waiting for you.”
Betsy looked down at her stepsister’s earnest face and felt a wash of love. The Wildes were tall, imposing creatures, but her stepsister was petite and delicate, with chestnut ringlets and a heart-shaped face. “You’re a dear,” she said, gathering her into a hug. “Joan is so lucky to have you as a best friend and sister.”
As soon as they arrived in the great marble entry, a groom was sent to fetch the dentist.
“Please join me for breakfast?” Betsy asked her stepsister.
Viola instantly shook her head and backed up a step. “I couldn’t.”
“You promised your mother that you would try to join us in the mornings.”
“Not when the castle is full of guests!” Viola whispered. “I can’t, Betsy. Please don’t ask me.” She took two more steps backward.
If Viola had her way, she would remain in the safety of her chamber or the library all day long and never encounter strangers. Especially unmarried male strangers.
After an initial shock, Miss Stevenson’s Seminary had been a happy experience for Viola; she had grown from a shy child, unwilling to meet any strangers, to one who was comfortable in female company.
But not with males, unless they were family.
“Please?” Betsy asked, reaching for Viola’s hand. “I don’t wish to encounter Lord Greywick’s mother by myself. Winnie thinks that Her Grace will demand to know why I refused her son’s proposal.”
Viola looked appalled. “We should avoid breakfast altogether.”
“Girls!”
They looked up as Aunt Knowe galloped down the stairs. “I heard that foolishness,” their aunt said cheerfully, when she reached the bottom and put her arm through Viola’s. “My dear, I’ve told you that the only way to exorcise your shyness is to force yourself into rooms full of strangers.”
Viola gulped.
“I will sit with you,” Betsy promised.
“I came downstairs to fetch my dandelion syrup to dose poor Joan or I would join you as well,” Aunt Knowe said. “Not a single person in that room will bite you.”
“If a man engages me in conversation, you must rescue me,” Viola said to Betsy.
“Of course. Last night I saw you talking easily to the vicar.”
“Oh, well, Father Duddleston,” Viola said. “He’s different.”
Viola was capable of chatting with an eighty-year-old man like their vicar, but give her a flirtatious young man, and she had been known to throw up in a potted plant.
“Did Father Duddleston mention that he is retiring?” Aunt Knowe asked. “The position will soon be vacant. In normal circumstances, a younger son of the family would take the living.”