Page 8 of Memories Made At Midnight
Four
Highbury House Gardens
THAT SAME DAY ~ QUARTER PAST THREE
Barely able to keep a mutinous scowl from forming, Beatrice held her head high as she clasped the yards and yards of seafoam green silk in her white-gloved hands and traversed the terrace flagstones. With each step, she held her breath so she wouldn’t trip over the fabric and make a fool of herself, yet again.
She grudgingly admitted that the sophisticated young woman who’d stared back at her in the oval cheval mirror in her chamber bore little resemblance to the girl attired in a gingham frock that morning.
Millborn had swept Beatrice’s hair into a confection of curls, leaving a few tresses to trail down to her left shoulder. The servant intertwined a creamy satin ribbon through the strawberry-blonde locks before tucking two jeweled emerald combs into the coiffure. The emeralds at Beatrice’s ears and throat twinkled happily in her reflection, oblivious to the turmoil inside the solemn-eyed woman who wore them.
Then, at Uncle’s insistence, the kindly maid had set about applying cosmetics to Beatrice’s face, which did rather enhance her features nicely. The rice powder muted her freckles and gave her complexion a creamy appearance. The lip and cheek rouge added spots of color to her pale skin, and her gold-tipped lashes appeared ever so much thicker and darker with the light application of burned cork paste.
Beatrice pondered the use of cosmetics, generally reserved for and associated with women of loose morals. Uncle must be quite desperate to make her more appealing, which only cast additional self-doubt upon her already bruised esteem.
For as long as she could remember, Uncle Cedric had told her how unattractive she was.
From what faint memories she had of her sweet mother, Mama had been beautiful.
Beatrice permitted her mouth to turn downward as she descended the wide stone stairway.
All the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Beatrice had fumed about Uncle Cedric’s audacity. Over and over, she’d tried to create a scenario that wouldn’t require her to marry a stranger—probably a decrepit old sod reeking of garlic and dirty feet—or render her homeless without a farthing.
She had considered—for all of three seconds—asking Uncle to allow her to borrow against her trust and set up a modest house elsewhere or to loan her the money to do so, which she would repay promptly upon turning five and twenty.
However, she strongly suspected his acrimony toward her wouldn’t permit him to show her that kindness or favor and had quickly discarded those hair-brained notions.
She’d only agreed to sit for the dratted portrait to buy herself a little more desperately needed time.
Surely it would take Uncle a few weeks to find a gentleman who agreed to marry her, sight unseen. Well, not precisely sight unseen. There would be the miniature portrait, after all.
If the artist ever finished the likeness.
And that was precisely when the beginnings of a plan started to hatch.
Beatrice could delay the painting’s completion.
Yes, indeed.
Just the thing.
Beatrice Blossom Carina Fairfax, you’ve become devious.
She glanced downward, only a smidgeon of remorse sluicing through her for what she was about to do to this lovely gown. For she had just determined that mishap after mishap would occur to prevent the artist from completing the miniature in a timely fashion.
The truth of it was, Beatrice wasn’t above bribing the fellow either; although he likely wouldn’t wait three years for his payment and he might run to Uncle Cedric and confess all.
A mischievous smile twitched the corners of her mouth.
No, she’d have to manage to ruin the gown to delay today’s sitting. Next, perhaps, she’d take a tumble and bruise her cheek or develop a week-long megrim.
In truth, the options were endless.
Delightfully endless.
Food poisoning. A skin rash. Sunburn. A summer cold. Weepy eyes. Spilling tea on the painting. Nala knocking the painting over.
Cork powder in Beatrice’s eyes would surely irritate them and make them red.
