“He came around last night and told me he’d asked Papa for permission. I turned him down, and Aunt Edith spilled about Henry coming over for tea, and you should have heard the row.” She shuddered at the memory.
“Lucy, I’m so sorry. Are you quite certain you don’t care for him? He seems . . .” I fumbled for an appropriately pleasing word. “Responsible.”
Drat. Responsible would never sway Lucy.
Her graceful fingers toyed with the ribbons on her gown. I took a deep breath, poised to tell her I also didn’t trust Henry, and that she should stay away from him, when she stood up abruptly.
“Well. It doesn’t matter. Henry sent me a letter early this morning, telling me he was leaving town and I wouldn’t see him again.” I heard the sting in her voice, though she tried to hide it. “So I couldn’t have had him anyway, even if Papa had approved. That means it’s either John or some fat vicar’s son, I suppose.” Her face grew serious, which didn’t fit with the almost revoltingly cheerful atmosphere of the dressing room.
I hesitated. I’d intended to warn her away from Edward, but it seemed Edward had already kept his promise and done my work for me.
“That must have been hard for you, but perhaps it’s for the best. You used to swear that Henry bored you as much as the others.”
She flicked an impatient glance at me. “Yes, but you know me. I can’t possibly admit when I actually do care. And Henry was different. I actually enjoyed his company, quite a lot.”
I swallowed back my guilt for not telling her the truth that Henry—Edward—was right this moment in my attic chamber, and that he had always been far more interested in me.
She turned on me a little abruptly, and said, “We’re like sisters, aren’t we? We tell each other everything. You came to me with that awful business about Dr. Hastings, so it makes sense that I should reciprocate, if there was something bothering me as well. Something I wasn’t certain how to handle.”
There was something tense in her movements that I hadn’t seen before. She kept toying with her ribbons, watching me carefully.
“Are we still talking about your suitors?” I asked slowly. “Or is this about something else?”
She paced a little before the full-length mirror, which reflected the sharp angles of her face, her dark hair coiled in intricate pins atop her head. “It’s . . .” She paused. “Well, it’s nothing really. Just some business with my father, some investments he’s made that I worry about. But what do I know about business?”
She was trying to turn her tone back to playfulness, but there was something in her eyes I rarely saw. Fear.
My voice dropped. “Lucy, what exactly is going on?”
But she silenced me with a curt wave as footsteps sounded outside the heavy curtain. One of the seamstresses drew back the fabric and asked us if everything was going all right, and if we’d like more biscuits.
After we’d dismissed her, Lucy smiled tightly and said, “Never mind, it’s nothing. Papa’s business isn’t why we’re here, is it? You listen to me rattling off about men so much, the least I can do is help you pick out a dress. Don’t you dare try to come to the masquerade in one of those old-maid dresses the professor usually buys for you. Mother and Papa want you to be a guest of honor. Go on. Peel those clothes off.”
I tried to conjure a smile to match her tone, but it wouldn’t come.
“Don’t just stand there,” she said. “Take off that awful coat and throw it into the rubbish bin. Those stockings, too, while you’re at it; they look like they’re from the last decade. I’ve picked out a gown for you, behind the dressing screen.”
The gown hung on a wooden hangar, red satin, low lace collar, and sleeves that floated like clouds. I touched the fabric tentatively between thumb and forefinger, afraid my presence alone would stain it. I didn’t deserve this—not the gown, and not her kindness.
I came out from behind the screen, frowning. “It’s too fine for me.”
“Good lord, how many times must I tell you that you aren’t a maid any longer?”
“It’s just that all of this isn’t really my world anymore.”
“Of course it is!” She rested her hands on her hips. “I know what this is about. You’ve no one to take you to the masquerade. Well, I’ve refused John, and Henry’s left me, so I haven’t anyone either. I’ll be your escort.” She smiled so broadly that I hadn’t a clue what to say. I couldn’t help but feel her joviality masked the pain from Henry’s rejection and the questions she had over her father’s business.
“Lucy, don’t be silly.”
“I’m perfectly serious! Come on, you’d have half the men in London after you if you weren’t so dour. That’s why this masquerade is so perfect for you. The whole point is to be someone else.”
Her lips curled, and this time I did manage to smile back. The idea of being someone else certainly had its appeal. Not daughter to a madman. Not jilted by Montgomery. Not a girl who found a flower laced with blood and kept it pressed in a heavy book.
Lucy slid her arm in mine and led me back around the dressing screen. I touched the lace trim of the red silk dress, imagining its feel against my skin.
“Try it on,” she said. “And then decide.”
I rolled my eyes, but at the same time slid off my coat, then started with the long row of buttons down the back of my dress that followed the line of my scar. “Shall I have an alias, then?” I asked. “Perhaps an Italian heiress?”
Lucy’s nose wrinkled. She helped me with the highest buttons, then together we peeled off my thin dress and layers of underskirts. “You’d never pass as an Italian. Your mother was French. How about a French baroness, fleeing the Radicals? Oh, the men will love it! They’ll all want to save you.”
I laughed for real this time. “Or swindle me out of my supposed fortune.”
“Either way, it’ll fill your dance card. What’s more,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows, “I hear Papa has invited a very eligible contract attorney.”
“Oh, an attorney,” I said, pretending to swoon. “What a dream. Do you think he has a friend for you? Maybe someone dashing, like a public registrar?”
As we laughed together, I stepped out of my final underskirt and stood in the room in only my combination, like Lucy. My braid was loose and curly like hers. My smile not quite as wide—after all, my laughter hid pain, too.