The wheat-colored dress was everything that Irene would have wanted, Becca decided, after surveying her reflection critically in the mirror. It was cut low over the bosom; the right sleeve nothing more than a pouf of fabric, which was the style. The left sleeve was long, flowing wide from her shoulder to be captured in a tight cuff at her wrist, which, of course, was not the style, but a scheme to hide her disfigurement, so that it would not offend the gentle sensibilities of her mother's guests.
Whether it would please Sir Jennet . . .was something that she would soon know. Her thoughts had calmed over the last few days, and she was now—not eager to see him, no. But willing to meet him sensibly and try, as Dickon had it, to become friends.
She turned back to her study of the mirror. Her hair was down in long ringlets, threaded with a beaded ribbon exactly matching the color of her dress.
It looked well, she thought. Of course, brown hair was not the fashion in beauty, and dark eyes were worthy of notice only if well-opened and round. Her eyes were subtly down-tilted, at the outside corners, and her eyebrows slanted slightly upward, giving her thin face an unsettling foreign cast which not even lush silky lashes could redeem.
Becca sighed and looked 'round at her empty room. Lucy had darted in while Caroline was choosing her jewelry to do up her buttons, and Prudence had come in after tending to Mother to comb out and dress her hair. All that remained was for someone to come and help her with her jewelery.
She had chosen the amber set that had come to her from her grandmother, and, one-handed, had hung the drops in her ears. The bracelet was something more of a challenge, but she managed to tease the clasp shut with the strengthless fingers of her left hand. Someone would be by directly to deal with the choker—she frowned as the clock in the downstairs hall chimed the quarter hour—or perhaps not. It was getting late and Mother would want her in line to receive the guests.
Standing, she shook out her skirts, the fabric cool and pleasant against her fingers, and sighed at necklace, alone and lonely on the tray. Ah, well, no one would be looking at her . . .
The door to her room opened hurriedly, admitting a red-faced Lucy.
"I'm sorry, Miss Becca," she said, coming forward briskly. "Miss Caroline was having a poor time of it, and—"
Rebecca put out her hand, touched the maid's shoulder. Lucy bit her lip and looked away.
"Caroline's slapped you again," she said, touching the hot imprint of her sister's fingers on their abigail's plump cheek.
"She does get a bit tempery," Lucy said, pulling away from Rebecca's touch. "Now, let's get you fit out—ah! The amber. Very good, miss."
"Lucy—"
The girl turned, the amber necklace held between her hands, and gave Rebecca a straight look from tired gray eyes.
"It's nothing, miss," she said steadily. "I'd be a fool to complain."
Which was, Rebecca thought, very likely true. If the abigail complained, Caroline would have father turn her off. Except—she closed her eyes to consider a sudden new thought as Lucy slipped the necklace about her throat.
What if, after all, she married as her father willed? Surely a wife might engage her own maid? And if she had—if she had folk to care for, familiar folk from home . . .would that not warm even the Corlands?
"I wonder," she said slowly, as she felt the amber drop nestle, cool and smooth, into the hollow of her throat. "I wonder if you would care to come with me, when I am wed to Sir Jennet."
Lucy gasped, and Rebecca opened her eyes, her gaze seeking the other woman's face in the mirror. It was pale now, the mark of Caroline's fingers standing out in stark relief.
"I'm—I'm flattered, miss," Lucy said carefully. "But—all the way up to the Corlands! I'm Midlands, born and raised."
And to go to a strange country, with a mistress both crippled and odd, bound to a lord who was an unknown quantity . . . thought Rebecca, with a silent sigh. Caroline's temper tantrums were at least known and familiar. Almost, Rebecca thought wryly, I would chose them over leaving, myself.
Except that choice was not hers to make. Becca made herself smile at the abigail's reflection.
"I understand," she said, and saw the color creep back into Lucy's face. "It was only a thought."
"Of course, miss," Lucy said, smoothing Rebecca's ringlets with a slightly distracted hand. "Why, Sir Jennet, he'll likely get you an abigail of your own, who's been trained in town—"
Actually, Rebecca could only think of one or two things less likely, as she stood there, but there was no reason to say so to Lucy.
Instead, she smiled again, lifted her hand to touch the amber drop at her throat, just as the hall clock tolled the hour.
"Best you take yourself down to the hall now, Miss Becca." Lucy hesitated, then smiled, showing a gap between her two front teeth.
"You look beautiful, miss. That color suits you."
"Thank you," Rebecca said, turning toward the door. "It is a lovely dress."
"You look stunning, Becca," her brother murmured, during the first lull in arrivals.
Mother and Caroline stood at the entry to the hall, shaking hands and declaring themselves pleased to see their guests by name. Dickon and Becca, positioned halfway down the hall, served as a secondary greeting station. Father, who had started off gamely in the first line, soon left in company with Squire Trawleigh. If Mother felt his lack, her face did not show it. Beside her, Caroline glowed like a star in the white-on-white dress, her blond hair loose on her shoulders, as befit a maiden.
"The dress is lovely," Rebecca whispered in reply to Dickon. "I'm grateful to Irene for sending the cloth, and Mrs. Hintchston outdid herself."
"It's not the dress I'm speaking of," Dickon said, voice rising above a whisper. "It's—"
"Hush!" she murmured quickly as a portly gentleman in a wine colored coat whom she belatedly recognized as her affianced husband entered the hall and made his bow over Mother's hand. "The next wave is upon us."
Indeed, it was so. Scarcely had Sir Jennet passed on to Caroline than Lord and Lady Quince appeared, followed by Ferdy; behind them Celia Marks on the arm of Leonard Jestecost—
"Courage, then," Dickon answered, mercifully back into undertones. "Where d'you suppose Ferdy got that coat?"
"Perhaps he lost at cards?" Becca hazarded, and turned to give her hand and a smile to Sir Jennet, pretending not to hear her brother's barely strangled laugh.
"Sir Jennet," she said, as the gentleman bent to kiss her hand. "I am so very glad you have come."
He straightened a little stiffly, but kept her hand in his. "Rebecca," he said. "If I may be so bold as to use your name?" His face was somewhat redder than on the previous occasion of their meeting, and his pale blue eyes seemed a bit moist. His pressed her fingers tightly. Rather too tightly, if truth be told.
"Certainly, sir," she said carefully.
"Rebecca, then. And you must call me Jennet. I very much look forward to sitting with you this evening and observing the festivities."
She kept her face smooth, reminding herself that she did not dance—not anymore—and that Sir Jennet merely meant to be kind. Which was surely, she old herself firmly, a good sign.
"That will be quite pleasant," she said, and produced another smile before passing him on to Dickon and turning to greet Lady Quince.
"Good evening, ma'am," she said with genuine affection. "How glad I am that you are here!"
Lady Quince gave one of her comfortable chuckles. "Oh, you'll not need my company at the side tonight, Miss Rebecca! Indeed, you will not!"
With this cryptic utterance, and a roguish wag of her head, she passed on to Dickon, leaving Becca to greet her helpmeet.
"Good evening, sir. How good of you to come!"
"Worth my life and my comfort to stay away," he said, with a side wise grin at his lady that was so fond it that took any possible sting from the words. He caught her hand between both of his big, rough palms and smiled down at her.
"You've heard I've decided not to sell that mare at present?"
"Yes, Ferdy had told us." She looked up at him, wondering at the pause, but before she could lay tongue to something to say, he pressed her hands and let them go.
"You and your mother will be calling on my lady day after tomorrow," he said. "It will be my pleasure to speak with you then, if you'll have a moment for an old man."
"Of course, sir!" Becca assured him, hiding her confusion behind a honestly affectionate smile. "I am at your service!"
He smiled again, seemed about to say something else, then simply made her a small bow before moving on to Dickon.
"Evening, Becca." Ferdy's handshake was firm.
"Good evening, Ferdy. I'm glad you came."
He reddened slightly. "Well, you said you wanted me, which is reason enough," he said, which from Ferdy was gallantry of a high order.
"I will have to think of some other things that you can do for me," she said, trying to tease him and prolong his stop. She was not looking forward to meeting Leonard Jestecost, or Celia Marks.
As it happened, she need not have worried. Leonard satisfied himself with a cool, distant bow, and Celia with a sniff, treating Dickon with the same medicine, which was, Becca thought, hardly fair. Not that Leonard had ever considered fairness, and if Celia Marks had ever thought of anything but herself and how to gain advantage, Becca had yet to see evidence of it.
She sighed quietly, shook her head slightly and looked to the first line, wondering who they might have next.
A tall gentleman in chocolate velvet, his thick, buttery hair tied back from his boldly etched face, bent in an attitude of courteous attention toward Caroline, who had her hand most shockingly on his sleeve, her face turned up to his like a flower, while Mother's entire attention was engaged with Mr. and Mrs. Eraborne.
Oh, dear, thought Becca, and sent a glance to Dickon, but her brother was watching something through the open doors of the ballroom. She could scarcely leave her place in line and drag Altimere out from under her sister's hand before anyone else noticed her behavior, and yet—
As if he had heard her thought, Altimere turned his head, his amber eyes meeting hers. One elegant eyebrow arched, and Becca instantly felt that they were sharing a delightful secret, though his face was grave and bland. He inclined his head to her, then brought his attention once again to Caroline. It seemed to Becca that he spoke briefly, a word—two at most.
Caroline blinked, her smile fading as her hand dropped from its improper nestle along his sleeve. She turned, and moved a step to the right, smile brightening again as she greeted Mrs. Eraborne.
Released, Altimere moved forward, walking with a wholly unconscious grace, as if, Becca thought, he were some wild, velvet-furred predator—a great cat or a lone wolf—that had wandered into their hall by chance . . .
He was at her side now, bowing his fluid, boneless bow.
She lifted her hand languidly and he received it as if it were a priceless treasure, bending over it while his eyes—amber, as if the jewels she wore had taken fire and life—were locked with hers.
"Miss Beauvelley," he murmured, and his voice lifted the hairs on her nape and started a shiver of pure pleasure in her stomach. "Allow me to say that you are most extraordinary. We must dance, and you must tell me everything about yourself."
She shook her head, smiling ruefully, belatedly remembering to slip her fingers free of his. "Of me," she said, hearing the words as if she were standing just to the left of herself, "there is nothing to tell, sir. Also, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I do not dance."
He smiled, very slowly, and there came another shiver of pleasure as he leaned close to murmur, for her ear alone, "I am persuaded that you do dance, Miss Beauvelley, and I beg that you will be kind to me, a stranger in your land." He straightened, though his warm amber gaze never left her face. "And to say that there is nothing you wish to tell—I think you are toying with me."
"I—"
"Hold!" He lifted his hand, the lace falling around his long fingers like sea foam. From the ballroom came the sound of music, barely heard above the din of conversation.
"The music begins!" said Altimere, and extended his hand, imperiously. "Come, let us show the room what dancing is!"
She took a breath, gathering herself to decline—and paused as Dickon turned to them.
"Altimere—good to see you," he said, giving the tall Fey an easy nod. "Becca, I haven't seen you dance in an age. It would do me a world of good to see you on the floor."
Shocked, her eyes flew to meet his. He smiled, and nodded. She felt her mouth tug into an answering smile.
Still smiling, she looked up at Altimere, and put her hand in his.
"Miss Beauvelley," he murmured, as they turned toward the ballroom. "You do me great honor."