“But Mathilde did all the seams along the hem, and the petticoat.”
“Yes, and,” Mathilde continued, taking a hesitant breath, “we know you pawned your cameo.”
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand, careful not to wet the material in front of me.
“I was going into your jewelry because I wanted to match your wrap to the color of the shell,” Rosamund explained.
Mathilde continued: “We feel you should take the frame off the prince’s painting and you can use that to get your necklace back.”
I could not think of the words to express exactly what I felt, so I gathered each of them in my arms and kissed their shining, twin braids. One after the other.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The morning of the ball, I yanked my curtains open at first light, allowing myself a moment to appreciate the blushing daybreak. The sun rose with all the shyness of a new bride. But, like the muffins Wenthelen served us for breakfast, this initial calm crumbled quickly.
Mathilde, whistling past as Elin carried a bucket of hot water upstairs, sneered: “It’ll be cold at the rate you’re going.” Rosamund, unable to find her flowered hair ornaments, accused Mathilde of borrowing and losing them. Elin, advising Rosie that virtue was the source of happiness, not hair ornaments, earned herself an icy look of scorn.
In the end, all three of them took turns washing in the same tub. I sent them to their chambers to begin dressing and left to take my own bath, alone, in my room.
Half submerged, I looked at my naked torso. Bony knees that rose from the bathwater like islands. Once, long ago, I had been attended to. Hair washed. Oils rubbed into my skin. Herbs scattered in the tub. Now my body bore the marks of living. Skin that had gone milky. A belly that had stretched for children. Hands—wrapped, now, aroundshivering shoulders—that had labored. I was an aging lady of the house, pruning in tepid bathwater, because there was no one to heat it for her.
I was older than my own mother had ever been. And yet, I did not feel old. I recognized the face that I could see in the looking glass. I knew the beating heart in my chest. I felt vaguely astonished to have children who were adults themselves. I squared myself, squeezing my shoulders. So many years had ticked past—through drudgery, necessity, injury—as if leading to this moment. To the evening’s ball. To what I hoped would be a turning point.
I had reason to be hopeful. The gift the prince had sent was proof. Simeon appeared to be favoring my daughters. The painting now sat in Rosie’s chambers. Propped against the window, a dark square backlit by sun. She was likely whispering to it as she readied. Making eyes at the frameless canvas.
As my girls had bid me, the day before, I’d removed the thick gold frame and taken it into the village. The gilded molding had sat on the seat of the chaise beside me, covered in a sheet, blind to the scenery—muddy farms and untrimmed hedges—along the lane.
As I drove, I reassured myself. It had only been a few short days since I had pawned the cameo. The pawnbroker himself had thought it unlikely anyone would be interested in a depiction of a strange woman. My mother was no mythological figure.
But, from the moment the bell rang above my head and the pawnbroker looked up, I knew his news would not be good.
“Lady Bramley!” Leonard rushed from behind the counter to take the sheet-clad object from my hands. “What is this? What have you brought? Allow me to help you.”
The shop looked the same as ever: boxes of flatware and shelves of pottery. A sword missing the jewels in its hilt. “It’s a picture frame. Genuine gold leaf, you’ll see. Here, put it on the counter.”
As he began to pull aside the sheet, I looked him in the eye. “Do you still have it?”
“Lady Bramley—” he began.
“You said you would keep it set aside. And that no one would be interested in it.”
“Lady Bramley—” he tried again.
“And it is ever so important to me, so I hope that it is right where I left it.” I was delaying, I knew.
“I am sorry.”
I nodded and looked away. “Who took it?”
He wrung his hands, apologetically. “You know I cannot share.”
“Who has the picture of my mother?” I demanded, then quickly put a hand over my mouth. I had not intended to reveal the depth of my desperation. I saw, in the pawnbroker’s eyes, pity.
I made myself turn away. My anger was misdirected. It was not Leonard who had cost me the necklace. It was a stepdaughter who hadn’t followed through on what was promised.
And now, rising from the lukewarm bath, I found I had no kindness left for Elin.
I could see my dress waiting for me, hanging from a picture rail. The garment was as delicate as a flower, held together by neat and even stitches, gathered in at the waist and then expanding, the skirt falling and barely grazing the floor.
