Annabelle felt absurdly pleased to have won her maid’s approval; she humbly accepted that she had much to learn from these two Frenchwomen.
As Annabelle and Christa prepared to return to St. James’s Square, Suzanne said, “Very well then. The first three dresses will be ready the day after tomorrow, and I will have more fabrics then for your approval. Christa has a list of the accessories that will be needed—gloves and slippers and the like. We have made a good beginning, no?”
Annabelle nodded in satisfaction. A very good beginning, indeed!
Chapter 8
The Monday before their departure to Suffolk was chosen for Annabelle’s fashion debut. It was only to her brothers at a family dinner, but Annabelle was still nervous, so Christa dedicated most of the afternoon to preparing her mistress. During the previous days she had made several visits to chemist and herb shops to secure the necessary ingredients for making beauty aids. First, she washed Annabelle’s hair, then rinsed it repeatedly with a chamomile infusion.
“What will this do?” Annabelle asked.
“It brightens blond hair. If your hair was dark, like mine, we would use rosemary for richer highlights.” Christa’s strong fingers kneaded Annabelle’s scalp gently. “Then, because your hair is very fine, we will end with a beer rinse.”
“Beer?”
“Yes, it will make your hair seem thicker.”
“But I can’t face my brothers smelling like the brew-house!”
“I promise the scent will be gone by the time your hair dries.” Christa smiled roguishly. “Though smelling ever so slightly of beer would make you attractive to most men.”
Annabelle could not help laughing. She had trouble remembering that Christa was a servant. Aunt Agatha had said that one must be firm, or servants would take advantage. Christa had shown no signs of “taking advantage” and her infectious spirit and tolerant understanding were rapidly making her into a friend. Annabelle had few friends; she had been too shy to make many new friends at the select seminary for young ladies that her mother had packed her off to when she was nine. She did maintain a correspondence with two girls she had met there, but both had married soon after their come outs, and they had the interests of young matrons with children.
“Now for the complexion,” Christa said. She wrapped a towel around Annabelle’s dripping head, then produced a jar filled with a sticky mush that her mistress eyed dubiously.
“You are sure that will be good for me?”
“This is a mixture of honey and oatmeal—and a secret ingredient of my own. I will leave it on for fifteen minutes, then pat it before I rinse it off. Your skin will glow with color and be very happy. Although, to be honest, your complexion is almost perfect the way it is,” Christa admitted. “But you must remember, part of being beautiful is how you think of yourself. If hours are spent on the task of making you lovely, will you not feel lovelier? By the end of this afternoon, you will feel that you have earned the accolades you will receive.”
“What if my brothers don’t notice any difference?” Annabelle asked nervously.
“They will,” Christa replied serenely. “And then you will know that you are beautiful. If a girl can impress her brother, she can impressanyone!”
“You sound very sure.” Annabelle giggled. “Do you have a brother?”
“I did.” Christa’s answer was terse and invited no comments. Annabelle was suddenly struck by how little she knew about her abigail apart from the fact that she was French, delightful company, and very skilled at her trade. Why had Christa come to England? Where had she learned to speak the language so well? Did she have any family?
For all the intimacy of their day-to-day association, the gulf between servant and mistress was vast and uncrossable, and Annabelle could not bring herself to ask Christa about her background. A conversation of that sort would not be at all proper. She could almost hear the words Aunt Agatha would use to reprimand her:Servants aren’t like us. They don’t feel things the way we do. Don’t encourage them to ape their betters.
It was a statement that Annabelle had never questioned until now, when honesty compelled her to admit that if Christa were dressed up and taken to a ball, her wit and charm would make her a sensation. She was probably more intelligent than her mistress, and certainly more experienced and better informed. As that was the case, which of them was the “better”?
Annabelle put aside her radical and uncomfortable thoughts as Christa started gently patting and pulling the honey face mask. Sure enough, it made her skin very happy. With a blissful sigh, Annabelle forgot social analysis in favor of enjoying the sensation.
* * *
Alex chatted with his brother while they waited for their sister to join them. While one part of his mind was listening to Jonathan’s detailed analysis of the relative virtues of light and heavy cavalry, another part was aware that he seemed to have been waiting for someone for a long time. Abruptly he realized that he had been watching for Christa. True to her word, she was a model of discretion, and he hadn’t seen her for days. The girl had disappeared into the household exactly as she ought. Unfortunately. Perhaps he should call on Annabelle in her boudoir more often?
Annabelle appeared before Alex had fully examined why he was so concerned with the welfare of a mere maid. His sister stood in the doorway for a moment before entering, and he suspected she was late deliberately so she could make a grand entrance.
The effect was everything Annabelle could have wished for; even Jonathan stopped talking about the cavalry to stare at his sister. Alex had never seen her look so lovely. Her hair glowed bright gold as it fell around her face in soft curls, while the long tresses behind her head were caught in a bow that matched the ribbons tying her dress. The low-cut gown was superbly simple and showed his sister’s graceful figure in a manner that managed to be both alluring and modest. Its color was a pale lilac that could be considered half-mourning, but the shade was also a perfect foil for Annabelle’s delicate coloring. She wore a simple amethyst pendant about her neck, and her expression was a blend of confidence and shy hope.
Alex crossed and took his sister’s hand, then bowed over it. “My dear, you are exquisite. Christa was right: I shall have men standing in line outside my study, waiting for the chance to beg for your hand.” He smiled into her wide blue eyes, noticing that they looked different. Darker lashes and brows, perhaps? He offered his arm. “Shall we go in for dinner before Monsieur Sabine becomes upset?”
Annabelle lifted her head with a gesture worthy of a queen and took his arm graciously, beauty receiving her due. The royal expression dissolved when Jonathan exclaimed, “You look smashing, Belle. The prettiest sight I’ve seen since my mare Cinders had her foal.”
Alex laughed aloud at how quickly her expression reverted to an older sister tempted to box her brother’s ears.
“Christa warned me that brothers were difficult to impress,” she said with a mock glare.
