Tilly tucked the letter into the waistband of her skirt. She would read it over a hot cup of tea later.
Read.
The reading of a letter was a notion that had once stood outside the realm of possibility for an East End gel like Tilly Birdwell. Then a few years ago, Nell had encouraged and taught her her letters.
Tilly had definitely gotten above herself with that leap.
She took a step back and tipped her head this way, then that, making sure the back of Isabel’s coiffure was symmetrical and smooth, before she noticed another letter in Isabel’s hand. A letter with swirly, gold-embossed print. Tilly whistled. “That’s a fancy one, ain’t it?”
Even in her elevated life, the occasional ain’t slipped out.
All right, more than the occasional.
It was just that most of the time when she said isn’t, it really did feel like she was putting on airs.
Isabel gave a dismissive shrug. “An invitation to a masquerade ball.”
“You ain’t going?” Tilly asked, but she already knew the answer.
Isabel dropped the invitation into the silver rubbish bin beneath the dressing table. “I never was one for a masquerade.”
Tilly lifted a saucy eyebrow. “You and Lord Percival could have a little wild night.”
Isabel met Tilly’s gaze in the mirror. “And who’s to say Lord Percival and I don’t enjoy a little wild night on occasion?”
With great difficulty, Tilly suppressed the giggle that wanted out.
“In private,” said Isabel with a waggle of her own saucy eyebrow.
Now, the giggle was out, and Isabel was laughing along, too, as she came to her feet. “I can practically hear the impatient tap of Percy’s foot from here. Am I made up to your satisfaction, cariña?”
Tilly stepped back and viewed Isabel from every angle. She picked up a small pot of lanolin she’d subtly tinted and dabbed Isabel’s lips and cheekbones. “Now, there you are. The most beautiful lady in Brighton.”
Isabel shook her head, smiling. “Oh, Tilly, I’m no rival to you.”
Tilly took her meaning. She was one of those gels that men liked with her blonde curls, blue eyes, and—well, there was no other way of putting it—voluptuousness. She wasn’t one of those classical beauties she so admired. Those ladies who were beautiful in paintings and poetry…ladies to be respected and revered from afar.
Tilly’s beauty was the sort men liked to put into practice.
She’d left that behind nine years ago, too.
She engaged in flirtation, but naught else when it came to the male sex.
Tilly settled an ivory lace shawl on Isabel’s shoulders.
With a smile of farewell, Isabel departed, and Tilly set about her nightly duties—folding and putting clothes away; turning down the sheets and fluffing pillows; laying a night chemise on top of the coverlet. Tilly wouldn’t see Isabel again until morning. It was Lord Percival who performed the bedtime duty of unlacing his wife.
And Tilly got an uninterrupted night’s sleep.
It was no exaggeration to say these last nine years of her life were better than the sixteen years that had preceded them. The list went on…
She had security.
She even had savings.
She could read.
She could almost talk like a nob.
