The Marriage Wager. Candace Camp
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she said at last. “She gave you the use of her first name?”
Constance nodded. She had spoken Francesca’s given name deliberately, for the use of it indicated a close relationship. She was glad to see that her aunt had noticed that fact.
“Please,” Constance said. “I know you do not like this. But think about the ball tonight. Think about telling your friend Mrs. Merton what Lady Haughston said to you when she called on you yesterday. Then think about not being able to say such things in the future.”
“You ungrateful wretch,” Aunt Blanche spat at her. “After all that I have done for you!”
“I am well aware of all that you have done for me, and I have told Lady Haughston about it. I have no desire to be on bad terms with you.” Constance forced herself to keep her voice firm, and her gaze equally calm and unyielding. She had often yielded to Aunt Blanche out of a sense of obligation and a desire to live in peace. But this time she was determined not to bend, even if it meant coming to a complete break with her aunt. She was discovering that she wanted this Season very much. “I am sure that Lady Haughston’s friendship will not last past this Season, and then our lives will return to normal. But think of how much you can accomplish for your daughters in the next few months, if only none of us act foolishly.”
Aunt Blanche’s nostrils widened, her lips thinning with fury, and for a moment Constance was afraid that her aunt would be unable to control herself. But after a moment the older woman swallowed hard, unclenched her fists and let out a long breath. Turning back to her food, she said in a cold voice, “Naturally, I would not stop you from going to Lady Haughston’s this afternoon, despite your insolence toward me. I shudder to think how your poor dear father would have felt had he seen you address me in this manner.”
As Constance was well aware that her “poor, dear father” had disliked his sister-in-law intensely and thought up any excuse to be absent when she came to visit, Constance rather thought that he would have applauded her actions. However, she refrained from saying so to her aunt and merely finished her food as quickly as she could, aware of her cousins’ amazed gazes upon her. As soon as she was done, she asked to be excused and was granted her request in frosty tones.
She fled upstairs, where she put the dresses for Francesca’s maid to redo into some of the boxes and bags that she had brought home the day before. Then she sat down to wait for the Haughston carriage. Fortunately, she did not have to wait long before Jenny, the downstairs maid, knocked on her door and announced with some awe that a grand carriage waited for her in the street.
Constance forced herself to stop and bid her aunt and cousins a pleasant goodbye. She was met with three silent, furious stares. Obviously, she thought, it would take some time to mend her relationship with them. Still, she could not regret what she had done, no matter how chill the air might be around the household for the next few weeks.
It was no surprise that Haughston House, an elegant white stone mansion in the classic Palladian style, lay in the center of Mayfair, that most fashionable of London districts. Constance, stepping out of the carriage and gazing at the imposing black iron fence railings and the enormous house beyond them, felt rather daunted. It was easy to forget when one was with Francesca that she was a descendant of men and women who had moved among kings and princes—as well as the widow of a man from another such family.
She wondered for a moment about the man who had been Francesca’s husband. Francesca had not mentioned him to Constance, even when they were talking about marriage and love. Constance was not sure exactly what that meant. She knew that the man had died several years ago, and that Francesca had never remarried. The romantic rumor was that she had loved Lord Haughston too much to ever marry another man. However, Constance thought that precisely the opposite might be true—that her first husband had given her a profound distaste for marriage.
Whatever anxiety the house inspired in Constance was erased, however, when Lady Haughston herself came sweeping down the staircase, hands extended in friendship. “Constance! Come up to my room. Maisie has worked her usual wonders. I cannot wait until you see.”
A wave of her hand sent one of the footmen hurrying to take Constance’s boxes, while Francesca herself took Constance’s hand and led her up the wide, curved staircase to the floor above.
“You have a lovely home,” Constance told her admiringly.
“Yes. Lady Haughston—my husband’s mother, that is—had excellent taste. The decoration is all owing to her. Had it been left to the old Lord Haughston, I am afraid it would have been all hunting scenes and enormous dark Jacobean furniture.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “Of course, it is far too enormous to keep up. I have the east wing entirely closed off.” She waved vaguely toward the other side of the stairs.
She led Constance into her bedroom, a large and pleasant room overlooking a quiet back garden. With windows on two sides, it was filled with light and soft summer air. It was femininely decorated without being fussy, the furniture elegant and graceful, and there was ample room to move around in it, for Francesca had eschewed the habit many matrons had of stuffing as many pieces as possible into every space.
A neatly dressed maid was waiting for them, a blue gown laid out on the bed beside her. She turned and bobbed a curtsey toward Constance and Francesca.
“Oh, excellent, Maisie,” Francesca said, moving forward to look at the dress. “Constance, come see. This is the dress I was telling you about. Maisie has already changed it. She took off that ruffle with the Vandykes.” She pointed to a swath of material on which were sewn dark blue triangular shapes. “And she took off the sleeves—they were long. And, of course, the matching band of Vandykes around the bottom of the bodice. Then she made an overdress of lighter blue voile and the little puffed sleeves—it is a younger look, I think, more suitable for you.”
“Now, if you’ll just try it on, miss,” Maisie told Constance, “I can see how deep a band of lace we need at the hem.”
“It’s beautiful,” Constance told her, entranced by the frothy confection.
With Maisie’s help, she took off the dress she was wearing and put on the one that the maid had redone. She turned to look into the mirror as Maisie fastened the buttons up the back and drew in a quick breath at the sight of herself. She looked younger and prettier. Constance beamed, unaware of how much of the youth and beauty she saw in the mirror was due to the happiness that glowed in her face.
“It’s perfect. Oh, Lady—Francesca, I cannot begin to thank you enough.”
Francesca clapped her hands in delight. “There is no need. The way you look is reward enough. I knew that dress would be exactly right for you. Did I not tell you that Maisie was a genius with a needle?”
“Indeed, you were right.” Constance could not resist looking at her image in the glass as Maisie knelt, pinning on the wide band of lace around the bottom.
The blue did wonderful things for her eyes and her skin, and her breasts pushed up over the deep scoop of the neckline in a way that would have been, perhaps, too provocative, had it not been for the demure trim of blond lace and the almost girlish look of the small puff sleeves.
“A very simple little something around your neck, I think,” Francesca said, studying her. “A locket, say. And I have a shawl that will look perfect with that.” When Constance began to protest, she shook her head firmly, saying, “I will lend it to you, and that will make it perfectly all right, won’t it?”
When Maisie had finished pinning the dress, Constance and Francesca laid out the clothes that Constance had brought over and discussed with the maid their plans for altering them, bringing out the materials they had bought the day before. They spent the rest of the afternoon cheerfully discussing hems and necklines and overdresses and petticoats. Then Maisie left to finish her work on the dress that Constance would wear that evening, and Constance and Francesca settled down to cut the narrow blue ribbon they had bought the day before into pieces and make tiny bows for Maisie to sew on at regular intervals around the deep lace ruffle.
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