Chapter 21

The sunlight filtered in through the clouds and Bernadette, standing on a stool in the drawing-room, felt grateful for that. Standing in the cloudy, shady room while the modiste made final adjustments to the wedding-gown was bad enough. In full, blazing sun, it would have been terrible. As it was, the stays that bound tight around the waist made it hard to breathe.

"Are you sure the skirt should be that length?" Lady Lockwood's querulous voice filled the silence of the drawing-room.

"Yes, my lady," the modiste, Mrs. Parnell, assured the older woman confidently. "In France, the slight train on the gown is almost a rule."

"We are in England, Mrs. Parnell," Lady Lockwood reminded her grandly.

Bernadette tensed. She could feel the modiste's anger, see her stiff back and her tight, clipped movements as she pinned up the hem slightly, and she understood it all too well. She felt some relief—seeing how Lady Lockwood insulted someone else made her more able to ignore the barbs thrown her way.

"Yes, my lady," the modiste said tightly. "We are. Though France still leads the fashions."

"Quite so, quite so!" Mama spoke up from where she sat on the chaise-longue beside Lady Lockwood. "And a train and lace trim are highly modish there."

Lady Lockwood said nothing—clearly, she wasn't sure whether to be offended at the contradiction or to be impressed that Mama knew the fashions of the day so well. In other circumstances, Bernadette would have laughed to see Lady Lockwood so discomforted.

"And you're certain that lace is where it should be?" Lady Lockwood inquired. The modiste took a breath in, as if she was trying to control herself. Bernadette wanted to get down off the stool, but she was hemmed in on all sides and besides, the stays were so tight that she could barely breathe, which would have made any swift motion difficult.

"Yes, my lady," the modiste managed to say in a tight, clipped tone. "I am quite sure. The embellishment on the neckline is also just as it should be according to French fashion."

"Well, I suppose you're right," Lady Lockwood said, though somehow sounding unconvinced.

Bernadette shut her eyes. She wished she wasn't there. She didn't have any say in designing the dress—the modiste had done all the work, following Lady Lockwood's instruction to make it "as fashionable as possible." Bernadette hadn't chosen anything, and certainly, she hadn't chosen to be standing in the drawing-room while Mrs. Parnell worked on the gown, with Lady Lockwood in attendance, criticizing everybody.

"I'm sure that the fine fabric speaks for itself, my lady," Mama said quietly. Lady Lockwood raised a brow at her.

"Fabric is just half the gown, Lady Rothendale," she said sternly, as though teaching Mama something of great importance.

"Yes, yes," Mama stuttered. "I suppose you're right."

Bernadette looked away. For all that her mother had often been cruel to her, she felt sorry for her. Lady Lockwood was even more critical and controlling than Mama ever was. Her thoughts wandered to Nicholas' father—what might it have been like to be raised by Lady Lockwood? Not that she could imagine the countess playing much of a role in his upbringing. Like herself, he was probably raised by a nanny and saw her only rarely.

Thoughts of Lord and Lady Lockwood led to thoughts of Nicholas, and she felt her heart twist painfully. She hadn't seen him since they danced together. Even though she was sure she was wrong, she couldn't help wondering if he was spending time with Emily.

He wouldn't. He surely wouldn't.

But, then, there was no reason for him not to. Society would doubtless approve—after all, the scandal sheets had questioned, openly, why the wealthy viscount and heir would court a woman almost unknown in the Ton . Lady Emily was very much part of society, in ways Bernadette never was.

She glanced down at the dress where the modiste was completing the hem. The dress was made of white silk, the floor- length skirt ending in a train that still swept the floor despite her standing on a stool. When she stood on the rug, she imagined the train would stretch back about two feet behind her. The gown felt like a cage, binding her and preventing all her movements. She glanced across at her reflection in the mirror.

The dress had puffed sleeves of silk so finely woven it was almost see-through, and the neckline was an oval, not low enough to be indecent, but certainly as low as that of an evening-gown and embellished with lace from France. The high waistband that held the dress tight around her chest was made of white silk, decorated with pearls and silvery filaments. She could only imagine how much the dress must have cost, and the Earl of Lockwood was paying for it. She wished she could feel grateful, but it was impossible to feel anything but resentful. She'd chosen none of it at all, and all Lady Lockwood had done was criticize her, the modiste and everything in the room.

"Ah! Look," Lady Lockwood declared warmly as the modiste stepped back. "That's the dress as it will look on the day. Stand up properly!" she snapped. Bernadette blinked, barely believing she was talking to her. She didn't even speak to the servants with such a tone. "You can't slouch in a dress like that. And countesses do not slouch."

"No. No, they do not," Mama echoed. Bernadette blinked hard, blinking back sudden tears.

The words were unkind, but even more unkind due to how inadequate she felt without them saying anything. If I'm unfit to be a countess , she wanted to shout, then why are you making me become one? That was cruel.

She shifted where she stood, desperate to be excused. As the modiste went to her workbox to fetch something, she coughed. "Please," she begged. "I beg to be excused."

"Of course, Miss Rowland," the modiste said quickly, looking up at her not unkindly, her dark eyes crinkled at the edges with slight, fine wrinkles. "I need to unpin the back of the gown before I can let you step down. If you could wait a moment?"

"Of course," Bernadette whispered. She had been standing there for an hour, wishing she could escape. A few minutes were no trouble at all.

She stood still, holding back her tears while the modiste unpinned the back of the gown, wishing that the woman could move just a bit faster. She could feel the cool air on her back and the whisper of silk around her that suggested the gown was becoming looser. She wore a light linen shift under it that reached to the middle of her calves.

"There you are, miss," the modiste said kindly, unpinning the back entirely. "Now, just a second and I'll help you step out of the dress."

"Thank you," Bernadette whispered.

She stepped off the stool, feeling terribly self-conscious. She was sure Lady Lockwood disapproved of her request to be excused, but at that moment, she didn't have time to care. If she didn't get out of there soon, she would burst out crying and how much would Lady Lockwood complain about that?

She hurried behind a screen to grab her clothes, then hastily tugged them on. She buttoned the dress behind her hastily and burst out into the hallway. As soon as she reached her bedroom door, she shut it behind her, then sank down on the bed. She finally had time to cry. She sobbed, letting all her sorrow and confusion wash from her in her tears.

"Milady?" Judy called from outside the door. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, Judy," she sniffed, not wanting any intrusion. "I'm quite fine."

"Very well, milady." She heard Judy's footsteps in the hallway and then the sound of the door to the room beside her own, where her clothes were stored. She took a deep breath, feeling relieved. She needed time to think.

And she needed someone to talk to.

***

At three o' clock, she was in the coach, the coachman driving steadily across town to Penning House. Bernadette alighted, holding her bonnet and cape close in the wind that tugged at them. Her bonnet was white, decorated with lilac ribbons to match her gown, and her cape was white like her outdoor boots. She tapped on the door and the butler answered it almost at once.

"Miss Rowland. Welcome. Miss Penning is waiting for you in the drawing room."

"Thank you," Bernadette murmured. She removed her bonnet and cape and passed them to the butler, then walked swiftly up the stairs, her shoes hollow on the stone stairway. Penning House was on the far edge of Kensington; the architecture older than that of Rothendale House and much more eccentric. The family had redecorated several times, and the old details like the mosaic floor and the stone columns from previous eras, set beside the newer white plastered walls and marble tiling, made the place unique and different.

"Viola!" Bernadette greeted her friend as she walked into the drawing room. Viola was seated in a wingback chair by the window, mending a sleeve and reading a novel seemingly at the same time. Bernadette hurried over as her friend stood up, taking her hands. "I'm so pleased to see you."

"I'm so glad to see you too!" Viola greeted her warmly. "Please, come and sit down, do." She gestured to the tea-table, where plates and cups were already set out, along with some delicacies to eat.

"Thank you, Viola," Bernadette said softly, drawing back her chair and sitting down. Her stomach grumbled with hunger—she'd felt so sick after the tense morning that she'd not eaten much at lunchtime. Now, at the sight of the delicate sandwiches and slices of cake, she felt her appetite abruptly returning.

"Did you have a pleasant day thus far?" Viola asked, reaching for the teapot that the butler brought in for them and pouring Bernadette some tea.

"I wish I could answer that I had," she said simply. Here, with Viola opposite her, brown eyes caring and heart ready to understand, it was so hard to hold back from crying.

"My dear, what happened?" Viola asked caringly, reaching for her hand, her brow furrowed with worry.

"I just...I just don't understand anything anymore," Bernadette whispered, feeling unable even to express what was tormenting her so.

"What is it?" Viola asked gently. "Is it that horrid countess you told me about? Is it her?"

Bernadette sniffed, smiling despite her sadness. "It isn't. She is horrid, you're right, and she upset me a great deal. But it wasn't her. It wasn't just her," she corrected swiftly.

"What then?"

"Nicholas. I don't understand him at all," Bernadette exclaimed sadly. "He just...I know he can't be interested in me. He's so different. He comes from another world. His grandmother insists on making us know that every second."

"You're the daughter of a baron, dear," Viola reminded her gently. "As noble as she is."

"Not quite," Bernadette reminded her with a wry smile. "I'm just The Honorable Miss Rowland. She's Lady Lockwood. And besides," she added sadly, "she's part of the Ton and I am not...I've always been on the edge of it."

"The best place to be, quite frankly," Viola said, an expression of distaste on her face.

Bernadette giggled, feeling a little more lighthearted. "Mayhap it is," she said, nodding slowly.

"I would say so! They're a bunch of degenerates, most of them. And those who aren't are simply too self-aware to be anything but tiring."

Bernadette smiled. She was sure that wasn't quite true—there were nice people in every group. But the assessment did seem largely fair, as far as she saw.

"They're mostly horrid," Viola continued. "And you're a dear. No, you're better out of their circles entirely. As am I." She leaned back, seeming relaxed. Bernadette wished, suddenly, that her family was more like Viola's was. They were content to be on the edge of society—a little unusual, a little eccentric. People's opinions meant nothing to them.

"I wish I could care as little as you do," Bernadette said sadly.

"You don't care. Everyone around you does. It's not your fault," Viola said gently.

"I suppose." Bernadette shut her eyes for a moment. Perhaps it was true that, of her own mind, she would never have cared whether society included her or not. But her parents had always cared, and Mama always made her feel lacking. And now, wishing she was more like Lady Emily made it impossible to think of anything but her own lacks.

"I am aware that you do not care for them, much like myself," Viola said, smilingly.

Bernadette looked down. She tried to find words. "Am I very awkward? Very insipid?" she asked. Her voice trembled, close to tears.

"What?" Viola exclaimed. "No! Don't be foolish," she said firmly, taking Bernadette's hand. "You are extremely interesting and very eloquent when anyone speaks to you," she told her. "If people are too foolish to be able to talk with you, it's not your fault." She raised a brow, smiling at Bernadette with reassurance.

Bernadette swallowed. "But I am clumsy and awkward. And inelegant. I can see that. I know what I look like," she insisted, a tear running down her cheek. "I know I'm not a society beauty."

"Nor am I," Viola countered, grinning. "But I know what you mean," she added slowly. "You mean you feel awkward compared to ladies like Lady Beatrice or Lady Cobham and her children."

"Yes," Bernadette murmured. "That's what I mean." She sniffed, feeling her spirits lift. It hadn't occurred to her that she wasn't the only person who felt that. And Viola struck her as graceful and elegant. Yet Viola, apparently, didn't feel graceful and elegant either.

"The Ton approves of things that follow its rules," Viola said slowly. "Someone—possibly a handful of someones—decides what is acceptable, and the rest of them are all too scared or too dazzled to contradict them. Those dazzled, scared and foolish people ridicule everything that is outside the rules. It doesn't really mean anything."

"I suppose," Bernadette said softly. "But it still hurts."

"It does," Viola agreed. "But we don't have to bother ourselves with them, do we?"

"No," Bernadette said softly. "But...but he does. Lord Blackburne does. I know he does." He had been dazzled, as Viola had said, by Lady Emily. And if that was so, then he was as foolish as everyone else.

"I am surprised," Viola said slowly. "I would have thought he was the last person to follow their rules. I don't know how he can," she added.

Bernadette frowned. "He's Viscount Blackburne," she pointed out.

"He never struck me as being part of high society," Viola noted steadily. "And if he is, I don't know how he can judge others."

"I don't know if he does," Bernadette said slowly. "I just wish I knew."

"What is it you wish you knew?" Viola asked thoughtfully.

Bernadette paused, thinking. "I wish I knew if he overlooked me like everyone else does." She could barely speak.

"Well, I don't think so, but only he knows," Viola said lightly.

"You mean I ought to ask him?" Bernadette whispered nervously.

"I think you ought to talk with him," Viola said firmly. "You don't want to spend your life not knowing what he thinks."

Bernadette nodded slowly. She didn't want to spend her life not knowing. She didn't want to spend her life drowning in shame imagining that he despised her. And there was only one way to find out, and that was from him directly. She had to find the courage to find out.