Pen told her about the incident with Blackstone and then the card match later.
Charlotte shuddered. “I cannot possibly imagine how you held yourself up in these situations. I don’t know whether to admire your courage. Or is it foolishness? It is good you are leaving all this behind.”
The carriage slowed and stopped in front of an elegant townhouse in Berkeley Square. “Ah, here we are.”
Pen felt ill at ease entering a stranger’s house.
She was shown a beautiful room on the upper floor, femininely decorated in cream and pale pink. She’d never seen such a pretty room. Mrs Wentwood—Charlotte—had impeccable taste. She also had a will of iron.
“Now. The first thing we must do is go to the dressmaker. However, not in this outfit. You will have to take it off.” She threw Pen a look that would’ve left Wellington’s army quaking.
“What. Now?” Pen was flustered.
“Yes. Now.” Charlotte gave a sign to a maid and crossed her arms. “I am waiting.”
Pen undressed with the maid’s help, feeling self-conscious and awkward. Charlotte clucked. “Take it all away and have it washed and donated. You won’t be needing them anymore.”
“No! Not donated. Please. They’re not my clothes. I need to return them.” This was only half true, for surely Sally’s brother did not expect to have his clothes returned, but she felt she could not get rid of her male attire just yet. “Please.”
“But we will have an entire wardrobe made for you so you will not need it anymore.”
“Nonetheless, they’re mine, and I want to keep them.” Pen’s will was as strong as Charlotte’s. “If you intend to give my clothes away, this stops right here, and I will not take part in anything else you have in mind for me.”
She relented. “Very well. What a hard head you have. Speaking of heads, we will have to do something about your hair.” She touched Pen’s badly cropped mane and frowned. “We will have to get you some hair pieces on the side and on the back.”
“A wig?” Pen would hate wearing a wig.
“Not entirely. It might be sufficient if we attach some curls on either side, and a little in the back.” She pursed her lips. “It would have to be in the exact same black hair colour. Let’s see what Ellie says. She is my abigail and excellent with hair.”
Charlotte lent her an apple green afternoon dress which was embroidered at the hem, a pair of matching shoes, and a shawl. Ellie fiddled around with her hair and stuck a countless number of pins into her head. It felt heavy.
When she looked into the mirror, she gaped at herself. Curls framed her face and an elegant, but fake chignon crowned her head. It made her neck look swanlike.
This was not Pen, the gangly youth, but Penelope. A lady.
Charlotte clapped. “What did I say? Ellie, you can truly work miracles. Oh, but look at you! You are beautiful. The hairpieces are slightly lighter than your hair, it is so very black. It will do for now, and we will try to find more appropriate pieces on our shopping trip later.”
Ellie had indeed wrought a miracle with her cropped mane. She looked like she wore her hair up in the current fashion, with curls framing her narrow face, emphasising her high cheekbones and luscious eyes.
“I look—look—like one of those brainless fainting damsels,” Pen complained.
Before she’d cropped her locks, she had worn her heavy, long hair pulled straight back in a bun. It had been a plain and sensible hairstyle that had suited her at the seminary. Now she looked silly and frivolous, like she couldn’t put two sentences together. Maybe she should start lisping like Miss Mountroy, Pen thought disgustedly.
“You look absolutely gorgeous. Like a young lady should. Like the princess you are.”
Charlotte knew about Pen’s family history. She said she felt honoured to help Pen transform back into a princess. Pen, however, shrugged it off. Princess, bah. It was another one of those things about her identity that seemed vague, like being British, or Indian, or both, or neither. Ultimately, she did not know what it meant, or whether it should even mean anything in terms of who she really was. Why couldn’t she just be plain Pen?
Alworth had understood that, hadn't he?
She sighed.
“Chin up. Smile! Oh, the colour of your dress brings out touches of green in your dark brown eyes. How well it suits you!” Charlotte tugged at the shawl, pleased.
“My hair normally never curls like that.”
“Probably not, but no matter, these fake curls are excellent. After your hair has grown back, we will tackle the problem again, but for now this will do very well.”
Charlotte grasped her hands and drew her out of her chair. “Off we go. We have much to accomplish on Bond Street.”
