A Kiss at Midnight

Page 70

“I was,” Henry said. “You may not like this, darling, but I’m going to say it anyway. Your mother was very frail, like a tulip that had been out of water. She spent most of the night reclining on the side of the ballroom.”
“Please don’t hate her,” Kate began.
“Oh, I didn’t,” Henry said. “Anyone could tell she was a lovely person who was deeply unlucky when it came to her health. She longed to be up and dancing.”
Kate’s mouth wobbled. “Poor Mama,” she said. “She always wished she had the energy to get up . . . but if she tried, she would end up back in bed for days on end.”
“I can imagine,” Henry said, nodding.
“Did my father dance with you?”
“No.”
“And yet you were there.”
“I was the most beautiful woman in London that night,” Henry said flatly. “I received four proposals of marriage in the week thereafter, and I chose my first husband from that group. And I did not look behind me.”
“I—”
“You will do the same as I, if it comes to that,” Henry said, fixing Kate with her eyes. “I sincerely hope that the prince has more backbone than your father, but if he does not, you will leave this castle with your head held high.”
Kate nodded.
“And now,” Henry said, “we must begin to dress. Where’s that maid of yours?” She pulled on the cord.
Rosalie rushed into the room a few minutes later. “Oh, miss, we’re that late!” She caught sight of Henry and bobbed a curtsy. “Excuse me, my lady.”
“We are indeed late, and it’s my fault,” Henry said, smiling. “I’m sure that my maid Parsons is shaking with anger. May I see what you have planned for my goddaughter’s attire this evening?”
Rosalie obediently trotted over to the cupboard and then returned with a pale yellow ball gown reverently laid over her outstretched arms. “It’s edged in gilt thread,” she said, “and there’s the yellow wig that goes with it just perfect. And there are some diamonds—”
“No,” Henry said. “That won’t do. She’ll look jaundiced. Did you bring any other ball gowns?”
“Well, yes,” Rosalie said, alarmed. “But I didn’t—”
“Let’s see those.”
“There are two more,” the maid said, running back to the cupboard. “I could only choose three from Miss Victoria’s wardrobe. They each take a trunk of their own, of course.”
“We understand,” Henry said.
“There’s this silk damask,” Rosalie said, turning around. “And the wig.” She nodded toward a wig that was tinted a distinctly bilious shade.
But Henry was already shaking her head. “Green will swear at your hair,” she told Kate. “Your mistress is not wearing a wig tonight,” she instructed Rosalie.
“No wig? Of course I don’t need to wear a wig,” Kate said with relief. “Victoria is here so I can be myself.”
“ She has to wear a wig,” Henry said with satisfaction. “You might as well send that green wig back to Victoria’s room, because I’ll not see that on your head as long as I’m living.”
“The last gown,” Rosalie said, hopefully. Over her arms was a great swath of gorgeous cream taffeta with designs in a delicate pale blue.
“Perfect,” Henry said, at the same moment Kate cried, “It’s beautiful!”
“If I don’t return to my chamber Parsons will have an apoplexy,” Henry said. “So, Kate: no wig, and put your hair up very simply, yes? I shall send Parsons to paint your face.”
“Paint my face?” Kate repeated, a bit dismayed. “I’m not sure—”
“Parsons is a brilliant artist,” Henry said, overriding her. “You won’t recognize yourself. Now be quick about it, my dear. We want to make a grand entrance, not enter after everyone has gone to bed.”
Kate nodded and then darted across the room to give Henry a quick hug. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Henry gave her an odd half smile. “I look at you, and I can find it in my heart to think that your father was not such a fool after all.”
By the time Kate had had a restorative cup of tea and emerged from her bath, she felt quite calm and almost happy. This night would decide the rest of her life. That was an odd and interesting thought.
She ran her fingers through her hair. It was tousled, and streaked with gold from all the riding she’d done in the sun. “So what can we do with this, Rosalie?”
“I could do curls on top of your head,” Rosalie suggested. “Or we could make coils, for a classical look, but that would be harder because your hair is so thick. I would have to use a curling iron to flatten it.”
Kate shuddered. “Let’s put it up, with some curls falling down the back as well. It weighs too much to pile all of it on top.”
“What would you like to wear as decoration?” Rosalie was poking around in a box on the dressing table. “We have a silver net, but that would make your hair look brassy. There’s a jeweled comb, but it’s deep green and won’t suit your ball gown.”
“I’ll do without anything in my hair,” Kate said, shrugging.
“Oh miss,” Rosalie moaned. “I’m begging you . . .” She rummaged about in the box. “Here’s a silver comb with emeralds,” she said in relief. “I knew that had to be here somewhere.”
“It’s only until midnight,” Kate pointed out. “I’ll hardly enter the ballroom before it will be time to run to Algie’s carriage.”
“I’m almost packed,” Rosalie said, glancing around the room. Open trunks lined the wall.
There was a brisk knock on the door, and a maid so elegant that Kate could easily have confused her with a guest at the castle entered the room. “It’s Parsons, miss,” she said, dropping a curtsy. “Lady Wrothe asked me to aid you.”
“Thank you, Parsons,” Kate said, seating herself before the dressing table.
Parsons opened a box and started rummaging through her various beauty aids. First she patted cream all over Kate’s face. She opened a jar of rouge and then shook her head. “Too pink,” she said. “What I need is crimson.”
She tried crimson and then wiped it off. In a few minutes there was a tumble of jars on the dressing table.
“I had no idea this was such an elaborate process,” Kate said faintly. She had her eyes shut as Parsons did something to them.
“I finished Lady Wrothe before coming to you,” Parsons said. “She’s got lovely skin but even so, at her age it takes longer. I’m giving you only the slightest help, miss. I just need to find the proper lip color.” She turned over the various jars again.
Rosalie, who’d been watching while she pinned Kate’s hair up, leaned forward and pointed to a little silk box. “What about this?”
“Peony red,” Parsons said, investigating. She dipped her finger and painted Kate’s mouth a deep red.
“It’s perfect,” Kate said, awed. And it was. The color turned her honey skin from an abomination to a delight. Her cheeks were tinted with a pale peach wash, and her eyes seemed to have deepened and grown more mysterious. “My goodness, Parsons,” she said. “You’re something of a magician, aren’t you?”