It all felt very unfamiliar after several weeks at Bath. Servants moving quickly up and down the stairs. The rumble of carriages outside. The faint chime of bells in the entrance hall whenever a door opened.
By late afternoon, Mrs. Greaves, the London housekeeper, appeared in the doorway along with a maid. “Your bath is ready, Your Grace.”
Beatrice nodded, relieved for the excuse to escape her own restless thoughts.
Steam had already begun to curl through the dressing room, softening the lamplight. The copper tub gleamed beneath the window, filled almost to the brim, scented faintly—delicately—with rosemary and mint.
The maids had warmed the room thoroughly, as every surface seemed to retain heat. Her new maid—new toher—stood waiting with towels at a respectful distance.
“This should be pleasant, Your Grace,” she murmured, loosening the laces at the back of her gown. “London dust is dreadful after travel.”
Beatrice gave a small laugh. “I had forgotten. One grows spoiled in the country.”
The maid—Clara, she reminded herself—smiled briefly but said nothing more. She was brisk, competent, and blessedly quiet. Beatrice liked her more by the minute.
When the water finally closed over her shoulders, heat sank into her bones like something she had been missing for days. Her muscles relaxed by degrees, each breath chasing the tension from her body.
Clara discreetly busied herself with laying out garments on the nearby chaise: a fresh chemise, silk stockings, stays already loosened for comfort, and the gown Beatrice had chosen earlier that morning—a sweeping blue-grey piece that flattered without drawing attention, its embroidery subtle in candlelight.
Beatrice sank deeper into the tub, resting her head against the rolled towel on the rim.
It is only a ball.Another evening. Another crowd. Another set of eyes.
But her hands—traitorous things—still trembled faintly beneath the water.
“You must be tired from the journey, Your Grace,” Clara remarked quietly, offering a warm washcloth.
“Perhaps,” Beatrice answered, though tired was not the right word.Restlessfit better.Uncertain.
When the water cooled, Clara helped her out, wrapping her in soft linens and then guiding her to the dressing table, where a fire glowed low and steady.
Her hair, still damp, was lifted and twisted with deft, practiced fingers.
“How would you like it this evening, Your Grace?”
“Not too elaborate,” Beatrice replied. “Lady Winthrop will provide enough spectacle for the wholeton.”
Her hair was pulled into a loose, elegant chignon, with a few soft strands left hanging at her temples. Not girlish, just gentle. A touch she would never have permitted months ago.
Another maid held her petticoats. “If you please, Your Grace, turn a little.”
Finally, the stays were secured with a soft click of the metal busk, and Beatrice released a slow breath. Clara lifted the gown, careful not to crease the embroidery, and pulled it over her shoulders. The fabric draped with the reassuring heaviness of good silk, and Clara gave the skirts a firm shake so that they fell in clean, elegant lines.
“Hold still for a moment, Your Grace,” she murmured, easing one fold into alignment. “There.”
When the maids finished, they stepped aside. Beatrice turned to stare at her reflection in the mirror.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” Clara asked, gathering the scattered pins into the pin cushion.
Beatrice didn’t answer at once. Her reflection looked back at her with an unsettling steel. She looked… composed, as though nothing about tonight bothered her. If only that were true.
“Yes,” she said at last, her voice quieter than she intended. “Thank you, Clara. You may all leave.”
The maids curtsied and withdrew, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Beatrice smoothed her skirt once, then again—an unnecessary fussing she resented herself for. Itwasonly a ball. She had attended dozens. Hundreds, perhaps. And yet?—
A soft knock interrupted her thoughts.
