———
Worried that Robb might have recognized her, or evenwonderif he had seen her in the garb of a maid, Rebecca decided to try to dispel that image as quickly as possible. Thankfully, her trunk had been delivered to her room, and with it, several additional clothing options.
From within the folds of tissue, she carefully extracted one of her more elegant garments, which Lady Fitzhoward had recently purchased for her, saying,“We are in fashionable Bath, Miss Lane. You must dress the part.”
It was a beautiful spencer of patterned pink satin with a gathered waist, short, ruffled peplum, and bow at the back with long ends trimmed in pleating. The spencer was topped by a matching cape-like collar with a high ruffled neck.
This she put on over a spotted muslin gown of the same hue, and also selected a bonnet with a pert, upturned brim.
Then she went downstairs and knocked on Miss Joly’s door to ask her to do something with her hair.
The woman set about the task, although she sighed heavily to have to lay aside a purloined copy ofLa Belle Assembléeto do so.
She curled and arranged Rebecca’s hair to show to advantage beneath her high bonnet brim, leaving tendrils on either side of her face.
Suddenly Joly peered closely at her. “You have something ... just there.” She lifted a cloth and wiped at Rebecca’s left eyebrow.
Inspecting the smear, Joly frowned. “Lamp-black, Miss Lane?”
She must have missed some. Abashed, Rebecca replied, “Just thought I’d try it.”
“It does not suit you.”
Perhaps hearing their voices, Lady Fitzhoward knocked once and opened the adjoining door. “Ah. Miss Lane, you look very well, I must say.”
“Thank you, my lady. I should....” Rebecca tugged on the short spencer. “You selected both the pattern and the color yourself!”
“Ah yes. Are you seeing Sir Frederick, perchance?”
“No. That is, I don’t believe so.”
“Pity.” She waggled her brows and returned to her own room.
Rebecca took a final look at her reflection and saw no resemblance to the “maid” she had seen in her mirror earlier that morning.
She thanked Joly and went out, walking through the corridor and into the main hall, shoulders back, head held high. Two gentlemen in conversation paused to glance her way, and their expressions shone with admiration.
As she continued across the room, the commissionaire opened the front door for her and tipped his hat. “Miss Lane.”
“Good day, Mr. Moseley.”
She stepped outside and made her way down the stairs, intending to stroll past the entrance to the stable yard and hopefully encounter Robb if he was back from delivering his last customer.
Not seeing him, she sat on one of the benches nearby tosurreptitiously await his return. As the minutes ticked by, she realized that perhaps she ought to have brought a book.
While she sat there, a man rode out of the stable yard—Sir Frederick Wilford on a chestnut horse. He did not notice her as he directed his mount down the lane and out of the village. She wondered where he was going. For a moment, she imagined herself riding beside him in a fashionable new habit and jaunty hat.
Rebecca was abruptly transported back to her youth, and recalled a mortifying scene as though it had happened weeks ago rather than years ago. Her neck heated as the memory revisited her.
———
Eager to see Frederick again, Rebecca walked over to Wickworth. One of the stable hands told her he had just ridden off, bound for Ravel Lake, so Rebecca had asked the young man to help her saddle Ladybird. She wasn’t supposed to ride on her own, but Ravel Lake, she had justified, was not at all far.
Emerging through the trees a short while later, she saw Frederick on his horse, Warrior, and two other riders near the lakeshore. She decided she would just let him notice her and then wave, sure he would invite her to join them.
Drawing closer, she noticed one of the riders was a striking woman in a formfitting blue habit that accentuated her developed figure. The other was one of the Wilfords’ grooms, who rode a respectful distance behind. Frederick did not notice Rebecca, focused instead on his lovely companion as they directed their horses to the picnic grounds. Well-dressed and graceful, the two were a living portrait of fashionable English country life.
Frederick and the groom dismounted first. While the groom held the horses’ reins, Frederick reached up and grasped thewoman around her tiny waist and helped her down, his hands lingering even after her polished boots touched the ground, his expression besotted.
