Devil in Spring (The Ravenels #3) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,67
the right to vote and make the laws fair. Which means never.” Pandora buried her face in the pillow. “Even the Queen opposes suffrage,” she added in a smothered voice.
She felt Kathleen’s gentle hand on her head. “It takes time and patience to change people’s way of thinking. Don’t forget that many men are speaking up for women’s equality, including Mr. Disraeli.”
Pandora flopped over to look up at her. “I wish he would speak up a bit more loudly, then.”
“One has to speak to people in a way they can hear.” Kathleen regarded her thoughtfully. “In any case, the law won’t change in the next two days, and you have a decision to make. Are you absolutely certain that Lord St. Vincent wouldn’t be supportive of your board game company?”
“Oh, he would support it, in the way a man supports his wife’s hobby. But it would always have to come second to everything else. It wouldn’t be convenient to have a wife who’s visiting her factory instead of planning out the dinner party. I’m afraid if I marry him, I’ll end up making one compromise after another, and all my dreams will die slowly while I’m busy looking the other way.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Pandora asked earnestly. “But you wouldn’t make the same choice, would you?”
“You and I have different fears, and different needs.”
“Kathleen . . . Why did you marry Cousin Devon after Theo treated you so badly? Weren’t you afraid?”
“Yes, I was very afraid.”
“Why did you do it, then?”
“I loved him too much to be without him. And I realized I couldn’t let fear make the decision for me.”
Pandora looked away, while melancholy fell over her like a shadow.
Kathleen smoothed out a wrinkle on the counterpane. “The duchess and I are taking the girls for an outing to the seashore promenade in town. We’re planning to visit some shops and have fruit ices. Would you like to come? We’ll wait until you’re ready.”
Sighing shortly, Pandora pulled the soft linen sheet over her head. “No, I don’t want to pretend to be cheerful when I’m feeling so floppulous.”
Kathleen folded down the sheet and smiled at her. “Then do whatever you like. Everyone has scattered in different directions, and the house is quiet. Devon has gone to the pier with the duke and Ivo to find out if the storm did any damage to the family yacht. Lady Clare is out on a walk with her children.”
“What about Lord St. Vincent? Do you know where he is?”
“I believe he’s taking care of business correspondence in the study.” Kathleen bent to kiss Pandora’s forehead, the movement diffusing a whiff of roses and mint. “Darling, let me leave you with a thought: There’s very little in life that doesn’t require a compromise of one kind or another. No matter what you choose, it won’t be perfect.”
“So much for happy-ever-after,” Pandora said sourly.
Kathleen smiled. “But wouldn’t it be dull if ever-after was always happy, with no difficulties or problems to solve? Ever-after is far more interesting than that.”
Later in the morning, Pandora ventured downstairs in a lavender dress of delicately ribbed grosgrain silk, with layered white underskirts that had been pulled back into a cascade of flounces. Ida, despite her earlier cantankerous attitude, had brought up tea and toast for Pandora, and had taken special pains to arrange her hair. After curling the long dark locks with hot tongs, Ida had carefully pinned it up at the crown of her head into a mass of ringlets and clusters. Whenever a lock of Pandora’s obstinately straight hair had refused to hold a curl, Ida had misted it with quince seed tonic, resulting in a coil as sturdy as a steel spring. As a finishing touch, the lady’s maid had accented the style with a few randomly placed pearls affixed to silver pins.
“Thank you, Ida,” Pandora had said, viewing the results in the looking glass with the aid of a hand mirror. “You’re the only person my hair has ever obeyed.” After a pause, she had added humbly, “I’m sorry I lose things. I’m sure it would drive anyone mad to have to look after me.”
“Keeps me in a job,” Ida had said philosophically. “But don’t apologize, milady—you should never tell a servant you’re sorry. It upsets the order of things.”
“But what if I feel so sorry that I must say it or burst?”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can. I’ll look at you and tap my forehead with three fingertips—like this. There—that’s our signal for ‘I’m sorry.’” Enthused