Four days after the salon, Henrietta, Cassandra, and Mrs. Seymour were sitting in the parlor at Mrs. Warburton’s. Unlike many high-end modistes who were French and liked to inject an air of mystery into their dressmaking, Mrs. Warburton was a no-nonsense Englishwoman. Despite her rigid sense of propriety, she made dresses that were known for their ability to tantalize. Catherine always said it took a woman with a strict sense of the rules to know how to bend them so well.
Catherine had intended to join their party, but, that morning, Griffon had come down with a startling cough. Henrietta had insisted that her sister-in-law stay behind.
“I’ll be far from lonely with Cassandra and Mrs. Seymour.”
“But I so want to be there,” Catherine had said, clearly torn.
“It isn’t necessary. And you would only be thinking of Griffon anyway.”
“You’re right,” Catherine had said, kissing her cheek. “But I won’t miss the last fitting for anything.”
Henrietta had never considered herself particularly enthusiastic about fashion. She loved a Warburton as much as the next high-born girl, but she generally considered herself a connoisseur of wearing a dress and flirting in it rather than being knowledgeable about cuts and fabric. However, her wedding gown threatened to convert her to fashionable devotion. Mrs. Warburton had insisted the skirt be white lamé on net with custom embroidery on the hem and sleeves. The bodice was trimmed with Brussels lace. She had a matching manteau, as well, which had lacework and embroidery mirroring that on the dress, and it was all secured with a diamond clasp. The dress was hopelessly extravagant, but Catherine had insisted. It would be her wedding present from John and Catherine.
At the last fitting, when Lady Wethersby had attended with them, she had hushed Henrietta when she had asked for the price.
“A lady should never know the price of her wedding gown, Lady Henrietta,” she had admonished.
When she had tried on the gown today, Cassandra and Mrs. Seymour had exclaimed over its beauty.
“Tremberley will die when he sees you,” Cassandra had said, a wicked gleam in her eye.
“Cassandra!” Mrs. Seymour had exclaimed, tutting at her daughter’s scandalous intimation. Henrietta had been unable to stay the grin that broke across her face.
Now, Henrietta was watching Cassandra’s fitting. She had also chosen white but with silver detailing up and down the gown. It gave the skirt and bodice a striking texture that Henrietta had never quite seen before. Unlike her gown, which fell in soft waves, the skirt of Cassandra’s skirt was stiffer, emphasizing her statuesque proportions.
Henrietta wanted to say that she thought Sebastian would expire on the spot when he saw Cassandra, but she did not want to risk Mrs. Seymour’s reaction.
Furthermore, even though Cassandra looked like a veritable angel, the exchange currently filling the parlor was anything short of peaceful. As the seamstresses fussed with the hem of her best friend’s skirt, Mrs. Seymour and Cassandra argued over the bodice.
“Mama,” Cassandra objected. “It is far too high. Surely, you agree, Mrs. Warburton?”
Mrs. Warburton remained studiously silent, reaching to fix an embroidered flower on Cassandra’s skirt instead.
“Cassandra,” her mother said, her voice soft but firm.
“Mama!” Cassandra responded. The two women stared at one another, seemingly having a conversation with only their eyes.
Mrs. Seymour was an impeccably elegant woman. She had the good posture of the most respectable aristocratic dowager, but a face that appeared younger than her years. She looked much like Cassandra and had clearly, of her two parents, been the one to bestow beauty on her daughter. It was said that no man loved his wife more than Mr. Seymour did and, having seen the pair together, Henrietta could attest to the plausibility of the contention.
Finally, Mrs. Seymour sighed. “One inch lower,” she said to Warburton. “But no more.”
Cassandra turned back to the glass, a smile tugging at the ends of her mouth. The look in her eyes was triumphant. Henrietta knew that this moment was about more than an inch on her bodice. It was an acknowledgment that, soon, Cassandra would be the head of her own household. She would no longer be under Mrs. Seymour’s gentle but exacting mothering, but, very possibly, soon a mother herself.
At first, Henrietta merely smiled at this exchange. But then, she realized with consternation, she felt a strange throbbing in her sternum. Was she having an apoplexy of the heart? She laid her hand flat across her upper belly, under her bosom, and felt nothing unusual. And yet an ache resonated deep in her breast.
Cassandra caught her eye in the mirror. “Are you well, Henrietta?”
“Yes,” she said, quickly, working to cover her emotions, “I—I just would like to look at the lace. For my veil.”
Mrs. Warburton directed one of the seamstresses to show Henrietta samples of lace. As she looked over the delicate fabrics, her mind raced. One thought pounded in her mind. It was a thought that she’d had many times in her life, even before she had known about her parentage.
You have no mother. In her mind, she said the phrase to herself again and again as she pretended to examine the delicate patterns.
When she had been a child, she’d assumed it was because her mother had died giving birth to her that this thought had always been with her. Strangely, ever since she had found out that her mother was Mary Forster, the thought had almost left her. It still surfaced at odd moments, but she now had the new problem of her illegitimacy to attend to. And, in a way, she had thought, she did have a mother—she knew who she was now. She just wasn’t anyone who knew or cared about Henrietta.
After he had found out the truth, John had gone to Mary Forster and told her that he wanted her to know Henrietta, if she would be amenable to such a relationship. Her brother, in short, had tried to do his best by her. He had seen why such a relationship might be important. According to John, the woman had acquiesced. But the matter had gone no further. Henrietta had no interest in pursuing a relationship with a woman she had never met. Or, perhaps, she did not exactly lack interest, but she had no idea how to begin. And she had been about to debut—hardly a time to dwell on the unpleasant fact that she was actually a bastard and the daughter of a woman with whom she had never had a conversation.
Indeed, Catherine knew Mary Forster better than Henrietta did, given that she had grown up with her until she was ten. Catherine had told her certain things about Mary, who she was, what she was like, and Henrietta had to admit that there were broad similarities in their personalities. Mary had apparently always been headstrong and passionate, which was how she had come to be her father’s mistress. What good could come of associating with her? Henrietta had thought. It seemed only likely to exaggerate the same defects in her own nature. She was already too fiery, too headstrong, too inclined to walk through the door of temptation just to see what was on the other side.
