George had wed, she hadn’t anticipated being in charge of a spoiled little girl, but her new husband had made it clear that Annis was now Frances’s responsibility. He took no interest in the details. Such matters merely distracted him from his real concern, the Allington Iron Stove Company, and Frances had learned to accept that.
George had been mad about her in the beginning, but the feeling hadn’t lasted long. She was forced to accept that, too. Fortunately, though she liked him well enough, she had not been so weak as to fall in love. She had not repeated her mother’s mistake.
It would all have been easier if her stepdaughter took any interest in clothes or parties, but Annis cared for nothing but her horses. She more or less lived in her riding clothes and often came into the house covered in horsehair and other kinds of muck Frances didn’t want to know about.
Well. She would put an end to all that soon enough. It was the kindest thing, in any case. Annis was nearly eighteen, old enough to understand that it was a man’s world. A woman had to hide her strength beneath softness. She had to know her place.
Frances rang for her maid, and when Antoinette arrived, she said, “I’ll want a walking dress. I’m going out.”
“Oui, madame.” Antoinette helped her out of her morning dress and carried it to the wardrobe while Frances sat at the dressing table in her corset and chemise, smoothing her hair. When Antoinette returned with a pink-and-cream ensemble, she shook her head. “Not that one. The gray wool.”
“But, madame, there is sun today,” Antoinette said.
“I can see that for myself, Antoinette. The gray, please.”
Antoinette gave a Gallic sniff and went back to the wardrobe. Really, Frances thought, though having a French maid looked well in the eyes of society, she wished Antoinette were easier to get along with.
Antoinette had been trained by a titled Englishwoman living in Paris. That detail pleased Frances, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that her maid’s black-eyed gaze saw right through her mistress’s facade of beautiful clothes and fine jewelry to the Brooklyn girl beneath. Antoinette had a trick of gazing at her with an unblinking stare, her brows lifted in disapproval. It made Frances’s skin crawl.
Occasionally, uncomfortably, she thought Annis did the same, looking at her as if her exterior were no more than a wall of glass that couldn’t hide what she had once been. Annis had no idea where Frances had come from or how poor she had been. Frances had every intention she should never find out.
She tried not to think about those things as Antoinette buttoned and draped and fastened the various parts of her ensemble. As Antoinette laid out her hat and gloves and cape, she asked, “Moi, I come with you?”
“No,” Frances said. “Not today. That will be all.”
It was a relief when she was gone. Frances smoothed her shirtwaist, taking consolation in her appearance. Her Royal Worcester corset made the most of her modest bosom and tiny waist. Her hair was shiny and soft, shaped into a perfect Newport knot. She usually arranged it herself, placing the knot in the most advantageous spot for her small features.
Annis’s hair was another matter. She wished she could get Velma to do something about it. It was difficult, of course, thick and unruly, but it so often straggled every which way. It might be easier, in truth, to hire a new maid for her stepdaughter than to persuade her old one to change. Velma was as slow as she was plain, but maids were hard to find.
Annis’s appearance would be a challenge in any case. A new maid would probably fare no better. There was only so much that could be done with a tall, angular figure like hers, and there was nothing to be done about such a long nose, however straight and fine. The freckles could have been avoided, of course. Only her eyes were good, that unusual pale blue she shared with her father.
Well. There were some men who liked tall women. Especially tall women with money.
Frances gave her hair a final pat and turned from the mirror. As she started down the staircase, she noted with satisfaction the gleam of the oak banister, the sparkle of the chandelier in the foyer, the elegant curve of the stairs. Her life was far from perfect, but who could have imagined that a girl from a dingy Brooklyn apartment would now