“That’s... wonderful,” Gwen manages, trying to return his joy. She knows how hard he’s worked for this—how much it means to him—but the feeling of dread clutching at her chest makes it hard to smile.
“I’ve sent Mrs. Stelm up to lay out your best dress. We’ll have dinner at Wilton’s and then ride to the theater. Box seats, best in the house.”
Gwen swallows past her unease when his smile just doesn’t fall. “You’re very excited.”
He laughs. “Yes. Now, go and get pretty, and I shall do the same.”
Gwen giggles despite herself and lets him guide her from the parlor, listening as he prattles on about the various business dealings and negotiations that created this magnificent assurance of votes. Of course, that quorum needs to survive until the vote, but they’ve done it.
He leads her up to her room and passes her over to the preparations of Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm. Gwen’s stomach twists. Images of the two of them pressed together in the kitchen swarm her head as the pair move around her, helping her out of her housedress and into her fresh shift and corset.
Did their stomachs somersault like this the first time they kissed a woman? How did they even come to realize theycould? And find each other? How did they decide together to risk everything to lie in the same bed each night?
“Are you quite well?” Mrs. Gilpe asks as Mrs. Stelm adjusts Gwen’s corset.
“How did you—” Gwen blurts, stopping just shy of shouting it like a demand.
Her housekeepers exchange a confused look and Gwen balls her fists, feeling so exceedingly uncomfortable and twisted up.
“Is something bothering you?” Mrs. Stelm asks gently, her rounder, more open face easier to consider than Mrs. Gilpe’s assessing stare.
She knows they both love her. Mrs. Stelm has just always been the softer of the two. Because they’ve always been a pair. Even if Gwen never thought on it much—even though it’s never discussed or brought up, they’re a pair. A team. A... couple.
“How did you two meet?” Gwen ventures, trying to look disinterested, though she can tell from both of their faces that she’s easily overplayed her hand.
“Mrs. Gilpe’s been with your family since she was born,” Mrs. Stelm says slowly.
“Right, I know,” Gwen mumbles, feeling foolish.
She knowshowthey met. Mrs. Stelm was hired by Father’s mother on recommendation from a local seamstress. And of course Mrs. Gilpe’s lived with the Havenforts since she was small, because her father was the groundskeeper. So they met at the country estate, and have been working together for Gwen’s entire life.
She doesn’t know how to ask what she really means. How do two women decide to...
“I thought I heard you come into the kitchen a few nightsago,” Mrs. Gilpe says idly. She bends to raise the hoop cage, stepping behind Gwen to secure it. “Your father asked you to bring in the dishes?”
Gwen nods slowly, watching Mrs. Stelm’s eyes widen. The two women exchange a knowing glance between them. It makes her blush. Why is it everyone in her household seems to have seen this before she did? She’s no child. She’s been out for four seasons, is... seasoned in the ways of courtship. Why has this hit her like a speeding carriage?
“Was there something you wanted to ask?”
Mrs. Stelm smiles at her, gentle and open, like she used to when Gwen had questions as a little girl.How do bees sleep? Why is the sky blue? Why do trees lose their leaves?But her question now feels too big for her tongue.
“You looked happy,” Gwen says, letting the words fall free even though she can’t seem to pluck up exactly what it is she wants to ask.
“We are,” Mrs. Gilpe says firmly, like it’s an easy, given fact.
“I’m sorry if it upset you, to see us like that,” Mrs. Stelm adds.
“No!” Gwen exclaims, wincing as they both jump. She doesn’t want them to think—“It’s not that at all. No, I’m... I’m glad. I mean, I knew, but I’m—it looked... nice,” she trails off, her cheeks going scarlet.
Mrs. Gilpe and Mrs. Stelm share another knowing look and Gwen wants to melt into the floor.Nice.She saw them in flagrante and all she can say was it lookednice? How—she shouldn’t even be commenting on it. She bites at her lip. If one of them were a man, it would be a scandal.
And she certainly wouldn’t think it nice. A man pushing you into a solid countertop, nosing at your neck, scrabbling at yourwaist—it would look barbaric. But what she saw was anything but. It was giggling and blushing and just . . .
“It was,” Mrs. Stelm says, withholding a laugh. “Nice.”
Gwen groans. “I don’t—”
“If it’s consensual, two people touching that way should always be nice,” Mrs. Gilpe adds.
