Page 78 of A Much Maligned Miss

“I confided in Effie and Vi. About Mama, I mean.”

“You did?” He was surprised.

She nodded. “Don’t you remember? You said I never gave Cynthia and Diana a chance. I…I did not want to make that mistake again. With my new friends, I mean.” Her voice was small, and he could almost feel the uncertainty coming off her in waves.

Did she regret confiding in them? “Well, that was brave,” he answered carefully. “What did they say?”

She colored faintly. “Vi said…well, she said Mama sounded like ‘a right old cow.’”

Gervaise laughed. He could not help it. “What about Effie?”

“She agreed and was most indignant. She said she did not blame me for acting so rashly and running away from home for a man.” Gervaise tightened his arms about her. His mind raced for the right words to reassure her.

“Oh, look!” she exclaimed suddenly, setting down her empty teacup in her lap and pointing at the cats. “How sweet!” Remus and Romulus lay side by side, their legs entwined. “Gervaise, they’re embracing.”

“Let us try that for a while,” he suggested. “If you have finished your tea.”

She nodded, though she looked a little surprised. He took both cup and saucer from her, setting them down. “Come here.” He took her into his arms and stifled his instinctive groan as she turned into him. “Warmer now?” he asked solicitously.

She nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. Then she tipped her head back and said something truly astonishing. “But then, I always am when you are near.”

30

“Turn your head a little to the right, Ambrosia,” Mr. Bailey instructed. Without Gervaise around he had soon fallen back on the familiarity. Caroline turned her head but kept her attention on the tiny gown she was fashioning to fit onto a wooden peg Gracie had been kind enough to spare her. The old charwoman had been vastly diverted to hear Caroline would be using it for a mannequin.

“And do not frown like that,” the artist begged. “You are supposed to look abandoned.”

“Sorry, I am in the middle of something tricky,” Caroline explained. The idea of a gift to send to Teddy Vance had occurred to her that very morning and she had been filled with enthusiasm for the task. She would have to send it anonymously, of course. The thought caused her a momentary pang, for she would have loved to include a note to her little benefactor.

But no, she would have to confine herself to writing A wedding gown for Miss Pomfrey ordered from London and leave it at that. The dear child could hardly be expected to engage in a correspondence with a fallen woman like herself. Instead, she would have to sign the note a well wisher. Or perhaps something whimsical like As ordered by Captain Gerrard.

She debated the matter as she pinned another flounce of pink ribbon to form the voluminous skirt. Fortunately, the many parcels and gift boxes from Regent Street had arrived dressed in expensive ribbons and trim which she could repurpose to make a fabulous bridal gown for Teddy’s little doll.

She did not know why precisely, but it was suddenly imperative to her that Miss Pomfrey had the most splendid bridal gown in all of creation. Perhaps to make up for the fact she had unfairly sullied the character’s name with her own shenanigans. Or maybe it was to distract herself from the strange dreams she had woken from that morning.

She frowned again. Doubtless that had been the fault of all that champagne she had consumed but her dreams really had been disturbing. There had been something about an envelope. An envelope placed next to a slice of toast. Then a hand had whisked it away. The sight of that white hand in her dream had been enough to fill her with a dreadful, unspoken fear.

Whose hand had it been? And why did it frighten her so? For a minute, she struggled to remember. Of course, it had been Sophy’s hand. The maid had put the letter next to her plate that particular morning. When had it been? Three weeks ago, maybe, at breakfast. And then she had taken it back again because it wasn’t for her.

But no…that wasn’t right. Sophy had placed the letter before her and then Mama had snatched it away. Mama had been furious and had turned on poor Sophy, who had been alarmed by her mistress’s unaccustomed anger.

“Ambrosia…” Mr. Bailey repeated in a warning voice.

“Sorry!” Caroline repeated hurriedly, relaxing her tight brow. “I have a slight headache this morning.”

“Hmmm,” the artist rumbled in his deep rich voice. “Don’t we all. I have to finish this painting for the opening next week,” he grumbled.

“Art,” he proclaimed grandly, “should not be rushed. It should be nurtured like a tender seedling poking through the cold hard ground.”

The cold hard ground. For some reason, those words echoed in her head with an ominous ring to them. She suddenly remembered a limp body lying slumped on the ground in her green woolen shawl. It had been cold that day. An unhospitable day in March, yet Caroline had seen her disturbing vision and then gone and lay down on the cold hard ground herself, beneath a tree and slept. She shivered.

“Now you look more like Cassandra receiving a vision of the fall of Troy,” Mr. Bailey groaned.

A vision. Why did he have to say that? It seemed to make things ten times worse. She had seen a vision, hadn’t she? A vision of herself lying dead beneath the pergola. The image seemed to grow even more vivid in her mind. Something was wrong though. What was it?

Deliberately, she made herself bring the horrible image to mind. She had been wearing her old bonnet, the one she had donated. That wasn’t right. She hadn’t worn that bonnet in months. Was that what was striking the false note? She couldn’t see her face because the brim of the bonnet obscured it.

No, that wasn’t it, she decided. Something else was wrong. “I give up!” Mr. Bailey announced, flinging his brush down in a pet. “We will adjourn for twenty minutes while you nurse your sore head.” He flung off roaring for Effie. Well, the name he yelled was Gloriana, but he meant Effie, she knew.