take you about London this Season, but… please don’t be offended…”
Charlotte had no doubt what was coming. “I need some decent clothes!”
Lady Isabella cocked her head in agreement. “Of course, with blacks… your wedding clothes are much smarter, I imagine?”
Charlotte hesitated, then decided to throw herself on Lady Isabella’s mercy. Wardrobe was clearly her area of expertise. “I… my father thought I should have my trousseau made in London. The marriage… came about rather quickly, and… my seamstress in Hampshire…” Charlotte fingered the folds of her old-fashioned cloak. “Then, when I got here, Henry would not allow me to spend…”
“My dear, say no more. Men have no notion of these things.”
Henry had known very well, Charlotte thought. He’d wanted every penny for his own purchases.
“My own dressmaker is a genius with the needle and very quick as well. I would be happy to recommend you to her.”
A sternly suppressed longing surged up in Charlotte and crashed. “I don’t want a wardrobe full of black gowns.” It was excruciating, not to mention hypocritical, that she had to appear to mourn Henry.
“Well, yes. Hmm. Such a brief marriage, and really unknown, after all. There can scarcely be gossip… Henry was not exactly a member of society. No, I don’t think black is necessary. You cannot wear bright colors, of course.” Lady Isabella surveyed her. “That dark green becomes you, and perhaps a bronze—yes, that would be very striking for evening.”
Charlotte knew that some people expected mourning dress for months and months. The idea was hateful. Rebellion rose in her. She would not wear widow’s weeds for Henry Wylde; she did not care who objected. “I should like to see a bit of society.”
“Of course you would, dear.”
“I hate black!”
Lady Isabella considered her. “It is very becoming on some, but with your coloring…”
“I won’t buy it!”
“Very wise.”
“But you think I could attend… that is, you would be willing to…”
“Evening parties would be acceptable. Not balls, I’m afraid.”
It was more than she’d dared hope for. Charlotte determined to write Wycliffe immediately and ask about drawing funds from the estate. Surely something could be spared.
And so, a surprisingly few days later, she stood before the mirror in her bedchamber in the first truly modish gown she’d ever owned. Lady Isabella’s dressmaker had been a marvel. She’d altered two gowns she had on hand to fit Charlotte, in particular a midnight blue—nearly black—velvet evening dress more beautiful than any garment she’d ever worn. And two more were being sewn especially for her. The woman had given her a special price as a friend of a longtime customer.
“Ooh, Miss Charlotte,” said Lucy, adjusting a flounce of the lavender morning gown trimmed with bunches of purple ribbon. “That’s gorgeous, that is!”
Charlotte was almost tearful at the vision in the mirror. She hoped she wasn’t vain or frivolous. It had just been so long since she had anything so pretty.
“I was thinking, miss.” Lucy hesitated.
“What?” Charlotte turned to admire the fall of the skirt in back.
“Jennings, Miss Cole’s dresser, has ever so much experience. She’s up on everything to do with fashion. I was thinking I might ask her to do your hair once, to show me, like.” As if afraid of objections, Lucy rushed on. “She’s been very kind to me, says I have a dab hand with an iron. If I saw her doing it, then I’d get the knack.”
“That’s a wonderful idea, Lucy. If you think she really would.”
“I do, miss. She’s offered to help me learn.”
“Then please ask her.”
Lucy beamed.
Nine
Exactly how, Alec wondered, had he ended up at the theater in this box full of females, about to be subjected to an evening of Edmund Kean? He vastly preferred comedies; he despised Kean and the set who raved over his stage frenzies. A year ago, or the year before that, he would have been engaged in some wholly different, much more… palatable form of amusement. With a very different sort of female.
Had it been Lizzy, dying to see a play? No, it was Anne, he remembered. He’d overheard her wistful comment about reading dramas but never actually seeing one performed. It was simply assumed, when he mentioned purchasing tickets, that Lizzy and Frances, and Charlotte, would come. Lizzy had been so excited; impossible to disappoint her. Even Frances had been pleased, and Charlotte… He’d been avoiding Charlotte, yet here she was beside him, stunning in a dark velvet gown. She’d undergone a transformation since he’d last looked, moving from winsomely pretty to riveting. Whenever he