She must have been eighteen or nineteen when this dress was made—might have made it herself, it was so simply done—and it still fitted her, he could admit that much. She hadn’t grown since then, was the same height, the same size. He’d seen her move about the room, knew there was a lithe, elegant, softly curving figure underneath the faded grey fabric.
He leant forward, diverting his thoughts from that untoward, unhelpfully stiffening path, and flipped the book open.
He turned some pages, watching the two women’s differing reactions in amusement. The aunt gasped, delighted at the pretty drawings of beautiful figures in beautiful dresses. He knew already from the overstuffed room and her layers of velvets and old lace that the woman likedthings—pretty things, to her mind—even if she had no taste or discernment and no time or care left over to give them.
The niece…the niece was puzzled but thoughtful. Her clear blue eyes flicked up from the book and met his gaze.
“I’m afraid, my lord, that you’re going to have to explain how this helps our cause.”
“Happily.” He nudged the book a little closer to Lady Pemberthy, who picked it up and continued turning the pages, entranced. “You see, Mrs Ardingly, I went to visit a friend recently who was dressed, in a manner of speaking, like Marie Antoinette. I don’t mean a costume, this was no masquerade ball, but rather that her modern dress held shades of that famous and tragic queen. Hints of luxury, of royalty, enough to put the sense into one’s head that one was meeting someone of great standing, although you’d have been hard pressed to explain why. Clothing can do this—can alter a person’s perceptions of the wearer and convey powerful but subtle messages.”
She merely raised an eyebrow.
“You said you were a parson’s daughter?” he asked.
The question threw her. “Yes…?”
“A parson’s daughter on a mission of charity… A ministering angel, or the goddess Eleos, all compassion and sheltering mercy…”
Mrs Ardingly gave a snort of laughter. “So am I to dress up like some character out of fable, and what…stand on street corners giving pantomimes?”
He smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting higher than the other. “Shades of an angel, Mrs Ardingly. Hints of a goddess. Let people meet you and wonder why they feel a little impure in your presence; let them wonder why they see light through stained-glass windows and hear a preacher’s voice in their mind.”
She breathed a laugh, shaking her head. “As you once said to me, Lord Cotereigh: you cannot be serious.”
“I’m completely serious. If you want to have any influence in my circle—if you want to be evenacknowledgedby them—you need to look the part.”
Her eyes tracked down him, from his coat to his boots. “I’m sure you’re right that clothing plays a role. For people who care about such things.”
“Oh.” He smiled. “We care a great deal.”
She lifted both eyebrows this time, unimpressed, but she looked away, her voice stiff and awkward as she said, “You…you are probably right that I could do with paying more attention to such things. Perhaps some…some neater, more modish dresses would make a better impression…”
“How beautiful this would look on you,” exclaimed her aunt, turning the book for Madelaine’s perusal. “Oh, I have sadly neglected your wardrobe, I know. Lord Cotereigh is quite right! But you never do let me buy anything for you, you always tell me to spend it on the boys instead, and you know I’m happy to, butI shouldn’t have let you say no. I’m ashamed of myself and quite determined to put it right.”
“Aunt,” Mrs Ardingly said—or Madelaine, as he now knew her name to be. He could never use it, but it gave him some small satisfaction knowing it suited her perfectly. Unlike her clothing, her name was entirely appropriate. It even conjured echoes of Mary Magdaline—another helpful string to pull.
“Aunt,” she repeated, as the other woman continued to berate herself. She put her hand on Lady Pemberthy’s arm, her voice quiet. “You know you cannot afford any of these dresses, and I wouldn’t let you buy them even if you could, so please stop. I can’t bear you to feel guilty over something so absurd.” Looking up, she met his eye. “Thank you, Lord Cotereigh, for your advice. I will find some more…accessible…fashion plates and make myself a few dresses in the modern style.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“It won’t do at all. You’re to be a goddess, not a governess.”
She gave an exasperated laugh. “If you want me to dress like a saint, Lord Cotereigh, I assure you that modest clothing is much more to the point!”
“Ah,” he countered, grinning, “but even that renowned moralist Fordyce permits ornament in a woman. Encourages it, even.”
“You!Youquoting Fordyce!”
He laughed out loud.
“And as for Fordyce,” Mrs Ardingly continued hotly, “he can—”
“Madelaine.” Her aunt put a hand on her arm, cutting off whatever presumably unpleasant thing it was that Mrs Ardingly thought Reverend Fordyce could do to himself. Shocking, from a parson’s daughter! She saw the laughter in his eyes and looked away, almost laughing herself, though her annoyance with himwon. Her full, pink lips formed a scowl strongly reminiscent of a pout.
Yes, yes, how provoking to be so easily provoked. He quite understood.
