It Happened One Autumn
Page 18
However, when it had finally become obvious that none of them would ever transcend their wallflower status by themselves, they had banded together to help one another find husbands, starting with Annabelle. Their combined efforts had succeeded in winning a husband for Annabelle, even though Simon Hunt wasn’t the peer that she had originally set out to catch. Lillian had to admit that despite her initial misgivings over the match, Annabelle had made the right choice in marrying Hunt. Now, as the next oldest unmarried wallflower, it was Lillian’s turn.
The sisters bathed and washed their hair, and then occupied separate corners of the room as the pair of maids helped them to dress. Following her mother’s instructions, Lillian donned a gown of pale sea-green silk, with short, full sleeves and a bodice that was held together at the shoulders with gold clips. A detested corset had reduced her waist by two inches, while a bit of padding at the top enhanced her br**sts until they formed a shallow cle**age. She was guided to the vanity table, where she sat wincing and flinching, her scalp smarting as a maid brushed the snarls from her hair and pinned it into an elaborate coiffure. Daisy, meanwhile, was subjected to similar torture as she was laced and padded and but-toned into a butter-colored gown with ruffles at the bodice.
Their mother hovered over them, anxiously muttering a stream of instructions about proper behavior. “…remember, English gentlemen do not like to hear a girl talk excessively, and they have no interest in your opinions. Therefore, I want the both of you to be as docile and quiet as possible. And do not mention any kind of sport! A gentleman may appear to find it amusing to hear you go on about rounders or lawn games, but inwardly they disdain a girl who discusses masculine subjects. And if a gentleman asks a question of you, find a way to turn it back to him, so that he will have the opportunity to tell you about his own experiences…”
“Another thrilling evening at Stony Cross Manor,” Lillian muttered. Daisy must have heard her, for a muffled snort of amusement came from the other side of the room.
“What was that noise?” Mercedes asked crisply. “Are you paying attention to my advice, Daisy?”
“Yes, Mother. I couldn’t breathe properly for a moment. I think my corset is too tight.”
“Then don’t breathe so deeply.”
“Can’t we loosen my stays?”
“No. British gentlemen prefer girls with very narrow waists. Now, where was I—oh yes, during dinner, if there is a lull in the conversation…”
Grimly enduring the lecture, which would undoubtedly be repeated in various forms during their stay at Westcliff’s estate, Lillian stared into the looking glass. She felt agitated at the thought of facing Westcliff this evening. An image flashed through her mind, of his dark face lowering over hers, and she closed her eyes.
“Sorry, miss,” the maid murmured, assuming that she had pinned a lock of hair too tightly.
“It’s all right,” Lillian replied with a rueful smile. “Tug away—I’ve got a hard head.”
“That is a monumental understatement,” came Daisy’s rejoinder from the other side of the room.
As the maid continued to twist and pin her hair, Lillian’s thoughts returned to Westcliff. Would he try to pretend that the kiss behind the hedgerow had never occurred? Or would he decide to discuss it with her? Mortified at the prospect, she realized that she needed to talk to Annabelle, who had come to know a great deal more about Westcliff since her marriage to his best friend, Simon Hunt.
Just as the last pin was being prodded into her coiffure, there came a tap on the door. Daisy, who was tugging on her elbow-length white gloves, hurried to answer it, ignoring Mercedes’s protest that one of the maids should see to the door. Flinging it open, Daisy let out a happy exclamation at the sight of Annabelle Hunt. Lillian stood from her seat at the vanity and rushed over to her, and the three of them embraced. It had been a few days since they had seen each other at the Rutledge, the London hotel where both families resided. Soon the Hunts would move into a new house that was being built in Mayfair, but in the meanwhile the girls visited each other’s suites at every opportunity. Mercedes objected occasionally, airing concerns about Annabelle’s bad influence on her daughters—an amusing assertion, as it was clearly the other way around.
As usual Annabelle looked ravishing, in a pale blue satin gown that was tightly fitted to her shapely figure, with matching silk cord that laced up the front. The color of the gown deepened the rich blue of her eyes and flattered her peaches-and-cream complexion.
Annabelle drew back to look at both of them with glowing eyes. “How was your journey from London? Have you had any adventures yet? No, you couldn’t possibly, you’ve been here less than a day—”
“We may have,” Lillian murmured cautiously, mindful of her mother’s keen ears. “I have to talk to you about something—”
“Daughters!” Mercedes interrupted, her tone strident with disapproval. “You haven’t yet finished preparing for the soiree.”
“I’m ready, Mother!” Daisy said quickly. “Look—all finished. I even have my gloves on.”
“All I need is my reticule,” Lillian added, darting to the vanity and snatching up the little cream-colored bag. “There—I’m ready too.”
Well aware of Mercedes’s dislike of her, Annabelle smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowman. I was hoping that Lillian and Daisy would be allowed to come downstairs with me.”
The sisters bathed and washed their hair, and then occupied separate corners of the room as the pair of maids helped them to dress. Following her mother’s instructions, Lillian donned a gown of pale sea-green silk, with short, full sleeves and a bodice that was held together at the shoulders with gold clips. A detested corset had reduced her waist by two inches, while a bit of padding at the top enhanced her br**sts until they formed a shallow cle**age. She was guided to the vanity table, where she sat wincing and flinching, her scalp smarting as a maid brushed the snarls from her hair and pinned it into an elaborate coiffure. Daisy, meanwhile, was subjected to similar torture as she was laced and padded and but-toned into a butter-colored gown with ruffles at the bodice.
Their mother hovered over them, anxiously muttering a stream of instructions about proper behavior. “…remember, English gentlemen do not like to hear a girl talk excessively, and they have no interest in your opinions. Therefore, I want the both of you to be as docile and quiet as possible. And do not mention any kind of sport! A gentleman may appear to find it amusing to hear you go on about rounders or lawn games, but inwardly they disdain a girl who discusses masculine subjects. And if a gentleman asks a question of you, find a way to turn it back to him, so that he will have the opportunity to tell you about his own experiences…”
“Another thrilling evening at Stony Cross Manor,” Lillian muttered. Daisy must have heard her, for a muffled snort of amusement came from the other side of the room.
“What was that noise?” Mercedes asked crisply. “Are you paying attention to my advice, Daisy?”
“Yes, Mother. I couldn’t breathe properly for a moment. I think my corset is too tight.”
“Then don’t breathe so deeply.”
“Can’t we loosen my stays?”
“No. British gentlemen prefer girls with very narrow waists. Now, where was I—oh yes, during dinner, if there is a lull in the conversation…”
Grimly enduring the lecture, which would undoubtedly be repeated in various forms during their stay at Westcliff’s estate, Lillian stared into the looking glass. She felt agitated at the thought of facing Westcliff this evening. An image flashed through her mind, of his dark face lowering over hers, and she closed her eyes.
“Sorry, miss,” the maid murmured, assuming that she had pinned a lock of hair too tightly.
“It’s all right,” Lillian replied with a rueful smile. “Tug away—I’ve got a hard head.”
“That is a monumental understatement,” came Daisy’s rejoinder from the other side of the room.
As the maid continued to twist and pin her hair, Lillian’s thoughts returned to Westcliff. Would he try to pretend that the kiss behind the hedgerow had never occurred? Or would he decide to discuss it with her? Mortified at the prospect, she realized that she needed to talk to Annabelle, who had come to know a great deal more about Westcliff since her marriage to his best friend, Simon Hunt.
Just as the last pin was being prodded into her coiffure, there came a tap on the door. Daisy, who was tugging on her elbow-length white gloves, hurried to answer it, ignoring Mercedes’s protest that one of the maids should see to the door. Flinging it open, Daisy let out a happy exclamation at the sight of Annabelle Hunt. Lillian stood from her seat at the vanity and rushed over to her, and the three of them embraced. It had been a few days since they had seen each other at the Rutledge, the London hotel where both families resided. Soon the Hunts would move into a new house that was being built in Mayfair, but in the meanwhile the girls visited each other’s suites at every opportunity. Mercedes objected occasionally, airing concerns about Annabelle’s bad influence on her daughters—an amusing assertion, as it was clearly the other way around.
As usual Annabelle looked ravishing, in a pale blue satin gown that was tightly fitted to her shapely figure, with matching silk cord that laced up the front. The color of the gown deepened the rich blue of her eyes and flattered her peaches-and-cream complexion.
Annabelle drew back to look at both of them with glowing eyes. “How was your journey from London? Have you had any adventures yet? No, you couldn’t possibly, you’ve been here less than a day—”
“We may have,” Lillian murmured cautiously, mindful of her mother’s keen ears. “I have to talk to you about something—”
“Daughters!” Mercedes interrupted, her tone strident with disapproval. “You haven’t yet finished preparing for the soiree.”
“I’m ready, Mother!” Daisy said quickly. “Look—all finished. I even have my gloves on.”
“All I need is my reticule,” Lillian added, darting to the vanity and snatching up the little cream-colored bag. “There—I’m ready too.”
Well aware of Mercedes’s dislike of her, Annabelle smiled pleasantly. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowman. I was hoping that Lillian and Daisy would be allowed to come downstairs with me.”
