Chapter Thirteen

Abigail chose a pastel-pink gown, heavy with lace. It wasn’t a gown she would have chosen for herself, but it was pretty, and it did suit her. Perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to wear pink a little more often. The dress was a present from Aunt Florence, and she’d found it waiting for her in her room when she went up to dress for dinner.

There was a tap on her bedroom door, and Aunt Florence poked her head through. Her face creased into a smile when she saw Abigail in the gown.

“Ah, you’re wearing it!”

“Of course,” Abigail laughed, spinning around in a little circle to show off the dress. “It’s beautiful, Aunt, thank you. You’re too kind to me, really. I’m going to wear the coral necklace you gave me with it. It’ll go perfectly.”

“You’re developing a taste of your own,” Aunt Florence said approvingly, coming into the room properly. “I’m glad to see that. A woman ought to dress for herself and nobody else, and certainly not for her mother and sister.”

Abigail bit back a smile. When she’d had her Season, she had dutifully worn whatever her mother had chosen out. Their clothes were generally picked to suit Scarlett, and Abigail was not really considered at all.

Lately, her only clothes had been simple, plain ones, easy to mend and maintain, and chosen for their cheapness, not meant to overshadow Scarlett.

I could overshadow Scarlett in this gown, Abigail thought, with a frisson of spiteful glee.

Aunt Florence helped her fasten the coral necklace around her neck, nodding approvingly.

“Yes, yes, very pretty. Do you know, I had second thoughts about this colour? Pale, sugary colours are all very nice, but not everybody can suit them. You do, though, my dear. I’m glad I chose this shade. You’ll turn some heads with this gown, that’s for sure,” she met Abigail’s eye in the mirror, and smiled conspiratorially. “One head in particular, I think.”

Abigail’s throat tightened. “Aunt Florence, I don’t know what you mean.”

Even as she said it, images of Lord Alexander’s handsome, grinning face flashed up behind her eyes, making her heart flutter and her cheeks flush. She saw him extending his hand to her, beckoning her onto the dance floor, and her heart pounded faster than ever. She imagined him seeing her in her new beautiful dress, his eyes widening with admiration.

“Of course you do,” Aunt Florence said briskly, adjusting the lace at Abigail’s neck. “Lord Donovan won’t be able to take his eyes off you tonight.”

Abigail’s heart plummeted. Of course.

“He’s very taken with you, you know,” Aunt Florence continued, oblivious. “I’ve never agreed with all that nonsense about women employing arts to attract men, but I do think a little more encouragement wouldn’t go amiss. Just to reassure him, you know?”

I don’t want to reassure him.

“I… I think Lord Donovan is a fine man, but…”

“Oh, my dear,” Aunt Florence shot Abigail a stern look. “Don’t take that flirtatious rake’s flattery as anything serious. I mean it. He’s a fool, and I wish he would leave you alone.”

“I didn’t mean…”

“The trouble with gentlemen like Lord Alexander,” Aunt Florence continued, as if Abigail hadn’t spoken, “is that they confuse innocent young ladies like yourself. You start to think that perhaps that is what courtship is like. You crave the excitement and are disappointed that more serious suitors are not as exciting as the rakes. Believe me, my dear, the saying that reformed rakes make the best husbands is the exception rather than the rule.”

Abigail bit her lip and stayed quiet.

Aunt Florence’s eyes bore into her, and she avoided the older woman’s gaze.

“There,” Aunt Florence said at last, hands dropping away from Abigail’s shoulders. “You’re ready. You look beautiful, my dear.”

Abigail glanced back at her reflection, but all pride in her appearance had mostly filtered away.

***

Dinner was an ordeal.

Abigail’s fragile mood had been half-crushed already, before she stepped into the dining room. The meal did nothing to lift her spirits. She was seated by Lord Donovan, of course, who spent the whole time complacently chattering about some political development which Abigail did not care about and could not understand. She smiled politely and nodded in the right places.

She could feel her aunt’s watchful eyes on her across the table.

Alexander was sitting opposite. Diana was not beside him – clearly, she hadn’t been able to wangle herself a chair next to him today – and she looked as black as thunder.

Lord Donovan told a story to the table, something dull and not funny or entertaining at all, but he received a polite chuckle at the end of it. Enthused, he embarked on a second anecdote. At this point, he’d monopolized the conversation for close to ten full minutes. Not even realizing what she was doing, Abigail’s gaze flitted across the table to Alexander.

He met her eye, swilling his half-drunk glass of wine, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Something like laughter bubbled up inside her, and Abigail was obliged to press her napkin to her face to smother the laughter.

The amusement passed almost immediately. Sensing eyes on her, Abigail glanced across the table, and found Aunt Florence staring at her, expression hard. Any impulse to laugh faded away immediately. Aunt Florence leaned over to William and began to whisper urgently.

On cue, the Dowager rose to her feet.

“Ladies,” she said smoothly. “Shall we retire?”

Abigail found herself walking alone at the back of the little procession of ladies, making their way to the drawing room.

No, not quite alone.

A tall, svelte figure materialized at her side, making Abigail flinch.

“Goodness, that gown of yours looks good enough to eat,” Diana remarked, smiling coyly. In the flickering candlelight of the dark hallway, it was hard to read her expression. “I’m not sure I would like to look like a piece of sugar candy, though.”

Abigail bit the inside of her cheek. The gown that had seemed so beautiful in her room suddenly seemed a little… well, a little gaudy.

What had she been thinking? Aunt Florence could wear all kinds of wild and strange clothing, because she had the confidence to wear it well, but Abigail did not.

“It was a present from my aunt,” Abigail heard herself say.

Diana smiled pityingly. “Oh, I thought as much. I’m afraid it makes you look rather sallow. I don’t say it out of unkindness, of course, only a word to the wise. You understand. People were looking , you know. I think a person with your complexion ought to stick to quiet colours and simple styles. Perhaps a nice grey, or a pale brown, or a dark blue would suit you better? Something less frothy .”

Abigail swallowed hard, resisting the urge to smooth out her bodice and pick at the frilly, lacy sleeves. “I rather liked this dress. Aunt Florence said…”

“Oh, one can never listen to the opinions of those who love us! They’ll always say we look pretty regardless. We women must be cannier than that, don’t we, Miss Atwater?” she leaned forward conspiratorially. “Between us, Lord Alexander simply couldn’t take his eyes off that monstrosity of a dress. He was hard-pressed not to laugh. That’s when I decided to speak to you about it, you poor thing.”

Abigail swallowed reflexively. “Oh.”

Diana straightened up, smiling demurely. “Just a little word in your ear, my dear. We’d better go in, then.”

Not waiting to see if Abigail followed, Diana glided off into the drawing room.

Abigail stood there for a moment or two, her beautiful dress hanging heavy from her shoulders, until a figure appeared in the open doorway.

“Abbie?” Aunt Florence whispered. “What’s the matter, dear? Aren’t you coming in? Mary suggested we could play a game or two of chess, and I mentioned that you were particularly good at…”

“I don’t feel well,” Abigail interrupted. She hated to interrupt anyone, least of all her aunt, but the words were out before she could stop them.

Aunt Florence frowned, stepping out into the hallway. “What’s the matter? Do we need to send for a doctor?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Abigail said hastily. She felt small and stupid, tears pricking at her eyes. In a few minutes, she would have to begin tearing the wretched dress off herself. “I… I just think I’m getting a megrim. I might go to bed early.”

Aunt Florence nodded slowly. “If that’s what you want. Are you sure everything is alright?”

“Oh, yes,” Abigail lied. “Quite alright.”