Chapter 12

The soft scent of dew floated through the drawing room window and Bernadette breathed in, her eyes closed where she sat at the pianoforte. Her fingers found the notes of her favorite Beethoven sonata almost on a reflex; the haunting, lilting melody flowing out from under her fingertips without her conscious thought.

Her thoughts were with Lord Blackburne. She was amazed to find that she liked him. He had been so rude, frightening and intimidating when she first met him, but that seemed the wrong impression. He was charming and funny, and interested in everything she had to say. She completed the sonata, and Viola, sitting by the tea-table, stood up, drawing Bernadette's attention back from her wandering thoughts.

"That was beautiful. Would you like some more tea?"

"Yes," Bernadette agreed, nodding. Her throat was parched, now that she thought about it, and she walked briskly across to the tea-table and sat down across from Viola. "Thank you."

"Not at all," Viola said, smiling a little concernedly. "You seemed sad just then."

"Sad?" Bernadette shook her head, distracted. "No. Just lost in thought."

"You play the pianoforte so well, even when you're not thinking about it," Viola said with a chuckle.

"Thank you," Bernadette murmured, blushing. "I could barely hear myself. I wasn't even listening."

Viola smiled. "May I ask what it was that so distracted you?"

"Nothing, really," Bernadette demurred. Then she smiled. "Nothing. Just, well...Is it possible I might, well, have become partial to Lord Blackburne?"

"You like him?" Viola grinned. Bernadette felt warmth in her stomach.

"Yes. I know...it sounds so silly. He was so rude and awkward when we met him at the ball, and yet...I think that is not his true nature."

"Only you would know," Viola said with a grin. "I have never spoken to the man."

"No. Well, me neither, really," Bernadette said thoughtfully. "Though we spoke a good deal at the theater. About Hamlet." She giggled, thinking that it sounded so strange. It had been immensely diverting, though it didn't sound that way when she tried to describe it to Viola.

"Oh?" Viola smiled. "He likes the theater?"

"I don't really know," Bernadette noted thoughtfully. "We had a difference of opinion on Ophelia." She grinned at the memory.

"Oh?" Viola said again. "Well, she is not a simple character."

"No. I suppose," Bernadette agreed, though she found she'd always identified with Ophelia. Dutiful, quiet, ready to do what she was told no matter whether it drove her clean out of her wits or not. She frowned. She had not been like that at the theater.

She had been different from the start of the evening, choosing her own gown—the peach silk—and talking freely about things that interested her. She'd stopped trying to do what everybody said she should and started trusting herself.

To thine own self be true. The words from the Shakespeare play drifted into her mind and she grinned. Maybe that was the right thing after all.

"You look happy," Viola observed, bringing her attention back to the moment. She smiled.

"I am."

They sat quietly for a long moment, sipping tea without speaking. Bernadette knew that Viola was likely trying to guess what exactly had happened on that night in the theater, but she didn't have the words to try and tell her. She had no idea how to explain the sudden warmth that had blossomed between them, the fact that it was so easy to talk to him when she found it almost impossible to talk with other young men.

Viola sipped her tea, then glanced up. "Is it three o' clock already?"

"I think so," Bernadette agreed, looking over to the clock on the mantelpiece. Viola pushed back her chair.

"I'm so sorry! I must go. I promised Mama I would return to help check the accounts. I think the coach is waiting for me." She was already standing. Bernadette pushed back her chair.

"I'll walk downstairs with you."

She fell into step with Viola, and they walked hastily downstairs.

The coach arrived as they went down the steps and Bernadette waved to Viola through the window until the coach turned the corner. She walked back upstairs a little dreamily, continuing the conversation with Viola in her head. She wished she had the words to explain how she felt.

She settled in the drawing-room, about to do some mending, but as she lifted the white gown from the basket where she kept her sewing, she heard Mama's voice in the hallway.

"There you are! Hurry! Hurry! She's downstairs."

Mama sounded unusually agitated. Bernadette felt her frown deepen.

"What is it?" she asked gently. "Who is downstairs, Mama?"

"Her!" Mama truly was agitated. "The countess. You know. Lady Lockwood." Her voice was shrill with nerves. Bernadette felt her heart twist, a mix of compassion for Mama's distress and confusion flooding her.

"Why is she calling at the house?" she asked quickly. Nobody had told them to expect Lady Lockwood. Surely, there was no cause for her to visit so soon after bursting in unexpectedly just yesterday evening?

"I don't know!" Mama said swiftly. "I just need you to be ready to see her ...the butler will bring her up any second." Mama turned to face the doorway as she said the words, patting her own hair into place nervously. "Hurry and make ready!"

"Mama," Bernadette began firmly. She was wearing her favorite white day-dress, one so often used that it had a worn patch on the hem, and her hair was arranged in a loose up-style, some of it falling down to her shoulders. It was an informal afternoon and she'd not expected visitors. It would take her half an hour to get ready and they didn't have that time. She was about to explain when the butler appeared in the doorway. Mama went abruptly pale.

"Lady Rothendale? Miss Rowland? May I present the Countess of Lockwood?"

"Yes," Mama said, sounding tense and scared. "Good afternoon, my lady." She dropped a swift curtsey.

"Good afternoon." Lady Lockwood's voice was brisk. She curtseyed too, the briefest bob of a knee, and then straightened. She wore a pale gray dress, her long white hair elaborately styled and pearls at her neck. Her gray-eyed gaze held Bernadette. "Ah! There you are. I trust you enjoyed the play." She didn't say anything about her informal appearance, but Bernadette went red anyway.

"I did. Thank you, my lady." Bernadette curtseyed politely. She couldn't have said what it was about Lady Lockwood that unsettled her, but whenever she was near her, she felt discomforted in the extreme.

"Good. Good. I came to drop in to take you shopping. I believe some new gowns are in order—a gown for the ball, and one for the upcoming ceremony."

"My lady..." Bernadette stammered. Lady Lockwood had mentioned this before, but she still didn't quite believe her. Surely, at best, shouldn't her own mother be the one to decide her choice of gowns? Since choosing for herself what to wear to the theater, it no longer felt right that someone else chose for her. She wanted to choose for herself.

"Now, no need to be coy. I'm more than glad to do this," Lady Lockwood said firmly. "It will look good in society if we are seen together more, as well," she added, fixing Bernadette with a stare. Bernadette looked at her toes uncomfortably. What society thought or did not think was something she preferred not to consider. It was bad enough having to face down the Ton at events like the theater play the previous evening.

"Why, Lady Lockwood! You are so kind," Mama murmured. She came to stand beside Bernadette, taking her hand firmly in her own as if forcing her to align with her view. "It's an honour that you take our Bernadette shopping."

"I'm glad to," Lady Lockwood answered, though Bernadette heard no gladness. She sounded brisk and stern.

"Well, then! Bernadette. Would you not like to get ready to go shopping with Lady Lockwood?" Mama asked, turning to Bernadette with a wide-eyed look.

Bernadette looked at Lady Lockwood and shrugged.

"I am ready. Best if we don't wait...I would not wish to waste your ladyship's time. If you wish to embark immediately, then we will need to go as I am. Otherwise, it will take half an hour."

"Bernadette..." Mama began. Bernadette breathed in slowly, firm in her decision. She could feel Mama's anger and disbelief, but she felt as though she could stand against it, as though there was a new strength, a new trust in herself pouring through her veins.

Lady Lockwood's eyebrows went up.

"Bernadette...at least have your hair restyled," Mama pleaded. Bernadette looked down at the curls that rested on her shoulders and took a deep breath.

"I will do that," she agreed. She would feel better not wandering the streets with her hair half-loose. "Excuse me a moment, my lady."

Lady Lockwood said nothing. Bernadette felt her lips lift at the edges, knowing it was a small victory, but it was a victory, nevertheless.

She walked stiffly from the room. On reaching her own room, she shut the door with a sigh of relief and rang the bell for Judy, who came in from the room next door where she'd been working.

"Could you redo my hair, please, Judy?"

"Of course, milady! Sit down, do. I'll do it straight away. Are you going somewhere special?" Judy asked smilingly.

"Nowhere in particular," Bernadette murmured. She felt shaken and nervous. It was one thing to challenge Lady Lockwood here in her own home. Being alone with her in Bond Street was going to be different. "There you are," Judy said warmly as she tucked Bernadette's curls into place again. "All done."

"Thank you, Judy," Bernadette said quietly.

She stood and went into the hallway.

"Ah. You're ready," Lady Lockwood greeted her in a clipped voice as she returned to the drawing room. Mama was sitting tensely in the wingback chair opposite the countess, who sat elegantly on the chaise-longue.

"Yes," Bernadette said mildly.

The coach-ride was mostly silent. Bernadette stared through the window, watching London roll past, pleased they lived not too far from the shopping street. Being stuck in the coach with the countess for longer than a few minutes would be terrible

The coach rolled on, tall stone buildings lining the street, and then stopped.

"Come on," the countess called her with a hint of impatience as they stepped out onto the street.

They walked to a building with a stone-dressed facade and big windows displaying cloth and dresses. Bernadette drew in a breath, feeling nervous. The place had its name emblazoned on the display window and the glass panel in the door in gold-decorated writing, and she felt her hands tingle nervously. She hated fancy shops like this one.

"Good afternoon!" a woman a few years Bernadette's senior greeted as they walked through the door. She had big glasses and a big, friendly smile, her auburn hair in a soft bun. "How may I help you?"

"We wish to purchase silks for a ballgown and a wedding," the countess told her briskly.

Bernadette's ability to defy the countess went only so far, and she stood back, wordless, as the modiste brought out different rolls of silk, holding them up for the countess to inspect.

"Yes. Yes. This one will do," the countess murmured. "Bernadette, come and hold this against your face, please."

Bernadette tensed at being commanded, but hurried to the long table where the modiste had unrolled a roll of silk for the countess to look over.

The silk she'd picked was dark blue and figured with a pattern of flowers in the same dark blue. Bernadette stared at it. It was like water, or the sky when night falls. It was bold and showy and just a few days ago, she'd have been terrified at the thought of wearing it. Standing in the shop, she found that she could consider it more reasonably. It wasn't really something she would normally wear—she preferred paler colors. She glanced about, seeing a roll of lilac silk. That was more her style.

"I think the blue would suit well," the countess declared before Bernadette had a chance to say anything. "I think we'll..." She turned to the modiste, about to instruct her further.

"Wait," Bernadette interrupted. "Let me see it."

"Why! I..." The countess began, her tone offended, but the modiste interrupted before she could get further.

"Of course! Please come this way. There's a looking glass right here on the wall. You can see what you think of how it suits you."

Bernadette thanked her quietly, then held the fabric up to her face. Her reflection looked back considerately. Her eyes looked huge and wide when she held the blue fabric close, their greenish tone emphasized by the dark, intense silk. She drew in a breath. She had never seen herself look so striking.

"I find it pleasing," she said quietly.

She felt the countess stiffen, as though expressing her own opinion was tantamount to treason. But there was little she could say and the modiste beamed.

"Well, then! I shall cut the necessary lengths. The style?" she asked. Bernadette, about to suggest something, caught the countess staring at her and felt withered by her look. The woman's eyes were hard and cold and dared her to argue.

She followed the two women to a table in the front of the shop, where some copies of the Ladies' Gazette were arranged. The countess pointed to the illustration on one of the covers.

"We would like a style like that," she said firmly. She looked at Bernadette again, as if daring her to contradict her. Bernadette drew in a breath. She would feel uncomfortable in a dress like that—it had a low, square neckline and brief puff-sleeves and she didn't feel as though she was confident enough to wear it.

"I..."

"That one," the countess said insistently, fixing the modiste with a hard look. "It's the most stylish one out of these pictures." She waved a hand at the copies of the magazine. Bernadette glanced at the covers. The one the countess chose was one of the recent editions of the magazine. She felt sure that was all that had influenced her choice.

"Of course, my lady!" The modiste beamed. "I will have it made up for you."

Bernadette swallowed hard. She wanted to object, but she felt worn down. Defying people was something she'd never done before, and she didn't like it.

"And now for the other one," the countess instructed the modiste firmly. "We want something in ivory silk, with perhaps some lace trim..."

Bernadette said nothing, her stomach churning with nerves and anger. Was it not bad enough, she wanted to shout, that she and Lord Blackburne barely knew each other? Did the countess have to choose her dress for the event?

She barely had the energy to nod when the countess thrust a page into her face.

"This one. It will be very modish."

"Yes," Bernadette murmured. She felt lightheaded after such a tense morning.

They walked to the door. As they reached it, the countess paused and Bernadette frowned, wondering why. She looked through the glass-fronted door and spotted two women outside in the street. The countess opened the door and beamed at them both.

"Lady Alverton! Lady Emily! Why! What a delight to see you." She turned to Bernadette. "This is Miss Rowland."

"Good afternoon," Bernadette murmured, curtseying low. She frowned. The older woman, who was smiling at the countess as if they were friends, was unfamiliar. But the young lady, who wore a white muslin gown, her blonde ringlets the height of fashion, looked like someone she was sure she had seen before.

"Good afternoon," the two women greeted her. The younger woman dropped a courtly curtsey. Bernadette flushed. Something about her put her on edge, though she couldn't say what—perhaps it was that insincere smile. So many society beauties looked like that.

"Well, we should be getting along," the countess murmured.

"Yes, of course, Lady Lockwood," the older woman answered politely. "We wish you a pleasant day."

"I wish you the same, Lady Alverton," the countess replied, inclining her head. She turned to Bernadette, who dropped a low curtsey, cheeks burning. Somehow, the encounter made her uncomfortable.

The countess bobbed the briefest curtsey and they went on their way.

"Now! This has been a successful day," the countess announced, evidently well-pleased with the outcome, or with her browbeating of Bernadette. It was hard to tell which. She walked with her to the street and Bernadette followed, exhausted.

They settled down in the coach and Bernadette sat wearily opposite the countess as the coachman lifted the reins. They set off slowly down the street.

"Now," the countess instructed. "I will have to insist that you wear a showier gown when you go to the park with Nicholas tomorrow."

"What?" Bernadette exclaimed. "Sorry, my lady. But...but...he made no mention of such a plan." She felt herself sway, feeling even more exhausted than before. She would see him again so soon? She felt entirely unprepared.

"Did he not?" the countess frowned. "Well, I know he is expected to arrive at half-past two tomorrow."

"Oh?" Bernadette asked weakly.

"Yes. And that should put an end to wagging tongues," the countess said, sounding very pleased.

Bernadette sat opposite her, head reeling, numb with confusion and weariness.

Soon, whether she wished it or not, she'd be seeing the viscount again. Oddly, the thought wasn't altogether repellent. Part of her felt excited to see him soon.