Mother dropped a lump of sugar into her tea and stirred, giving no impression that she’d heard her daughter.
Oh, but she had.
“But, Artemis,” she said, once she’d taken a delicate sip. “The question you never ask yourself is this—does the color like you back?”
Artemis tore off a crisp edge of scone. “True. I never ask that question.”
She knew the answer would needle beneath Mother’s skin, but she hadn’t spoken it for that purpose. She harbored the hope that, someday, Mother would simply nod and accept the answer.
“If you were light, like me,” continued Mother, “or possessed of blacker hair and creamier skin, that hue would sing on you. But …” She emitted a resigned sigh. “You’re dark like your father and Rake, which is desired for a man, but for a woman …” Another sigh.
In Mother’s eyes, this was one of the leading tragedies of her life—that her daughter resembled her in no way. Possessed of translucent blue eyes and hair of the lightest blonde, Mother was fine-boned, even fragile-appearing—a diamond of the first water. A rare beauty, Artemis had heard her described. Even at the age of two-and-fifty, she was still the most beautiful woman in any room she entered.
With her height, fullness of figure, anddarklooks, Artemis was her complete physical opposite.
“How was Paris?” asked Artemis, eager to move the topic of conversation away from herself.
“Oh, the same as ever.”
This was high praise from Mother.
“Are any exciting new fashion developments heading to England’s shores next year?”
Mother pursed her mouth, as if she were carefully forming her words before she allowed them to leave her mouth. “The waistlines are dropping.” A slight narrowing of her eyes had Artemis intuitively bracing herself. “You shall want to prepare yourself for tighter corsets.”
A laugh that refused to take any of this too seriously escaped Artemis. “How does one prepare oneself for tighter corsets?” she asked. “As implements of female torture, they are already quite effective.”
Her mother remained utterly serious. “By eating less, of course.”
“Mother, you already eat like a bird.”
Mother’s brow lifted a miniscule increment, which was as high as she ever lifted to keep her skin free of wrinkles. Mother had many such tricks for battling the hand of time.
Of a sudden, it struck Artemis.
You shall want to prepare yourself.
It hadn’t beenyouin the general sense.
“I might skip that fashion development.” She hoped that settled it, and they could move on to other topics.
Mother showed no such inclination. Her head tilted with assessment. “The style will suit you, Artemis.”
“Oh?” She smeared a hefty dollop of clotted cream onto her scone, followed by a swipe of strawberry jam and a too-large bite, but …oh…scrumptious.
“The width of your hips gives your waist the illusion of smallness.”
Through dense scone, a laugh sprang from Artemis. It was only with great difficulty and a sip of tea that she managed to swallow. “One must be grateful for the relativity of proportions, I suppose.”
Mother gave a rueful shake of the head. “As for me, Madame Boucher constructed a special underskirt for added volume.” She lifted empty hands, as if helpless in the face of the vicissitudes of the greater universe. “I’m too small.”
“Mother, you’re perfect as you are.”
The response had been born both of familiar instinct—and the truth.
Motherwasperfect.
She took another sip of tea, then asked, “And you, my dear? Have you wearied of whatever it is you’ve been occupying yourself with in Yorkshire?”
