When packing for the weekend party her mother had insisted on that dress, saying it made Margaret look young and innocent, like an eighteen-year-old about to face her first Season, rather than, as implied, a twenty-four-year-old who was close to taking up residence on the shelf.
‘No, no, that will never do,’ her mother said, frowning at the gown being held up for her inspection. ‘That might be suitable for a debutante but not for a future duchess. It’s all wrong. You’ll have to do something about it.’
‘Something, ma’am?’ Molly said, turning the gown towards her.
‘Yes, something. It needs to make a statement. It needs to say “I am the young lady who captured the most eligible man available this Season. I am to be a duchess”.’
Margaret cringed, knowing that neither statement was true and never would be, and a gown certainly would not make them so.
‘I suppose I could remove some of the lace around the neckline so it has a deeper décolletage?’ Molly said with some uncertainty.
‘That would be perfect,’ her mother declared, flicking her hand at the maid in dismissal.
‘Molly can hardly start making alterations now,’ Margaret said, hoping to put an end to her mother’s interference. ‘Even starting this early—’ she looked over at the clock ticking in the corner ‘—we’ll be late for the ball.’
‘You’re about to become a duchess, my dear. People are going to have to get used to waiting for you.’
‘I will be as quick as I can, miss,’ Molly said, draping the gown over her arm.
‘And tell my lady’s maid to join us,’ her mother instructed as Molly left the room.
‘Why on earth do I need two ladies’ maids?’
‘Gertrude has much stronger hands than that little slip of a thing,’ came her mother’s peculiar reply. Then she frowned at Margaret. ‘I wonder if you should wear rouge tonight. Your cheeks are rather pale.’
‘No, Mother. I will not be painting my face,’ Margaret said, turning to look at her reflection, which was no paler than usual.
‘No, perhaps not. But let’s just give those cheeks a good pinch.’
Her mother leant over Margaret’s shoulder, her fingers taking on the appearance of lobster claws.
Margaret flinched away from the nipping fingers. ‘The Duke proposed to me when I was wearing a plain grey skirt and white high-necked blouse with my cheeks as colourless as they always are. I don’t believe we need all this artifice.’
‘Perhaps,’ her mother conceded, lowering her hand. ‘Oh, my dear, you don’t know how happy this has made me.’ She placed her hand over her heart, closed her eyes and gave a small sigh, causing a twinge of guilt to twist inside Margaret. She did not like deceiving her mother, but then, if her mother hadn’t all but thrown Baron Edgeware at her this would never have happened. She had no reason for guilt. But that realisation did not make her feel any better.
‘I believe Lady Chedmore turned green when I told her. Then she had the audacity to imply that I was making it up, or had been mistaken, or was even starting to become a deluded old woman. But I suppose that’s jealousy for you. It makes people behave in such an unfortunate manner.’ Her mother shook her head and sighed, as if in pity for Lady Chedmore, but her beaming smile returned as bright as ever, suggesting delight at the other lady’s envy.
‘No doubt everyone is already talking about your forthcoming marriage,’ she continued, fluffing out the skirt of her gown and taking a seat in a nearby armchair. ‘You know what gossips women can be. But it’s still going to be good to see their faces tonight when you are on the arm of the Duke of Rosedale.’
Her mother sighed again with pleasure, her hand back on her heart. Then her expression turned serious. ‘I’ve sent a telegram to your father telling him about your forthcoming marriage. That Percival is going to have to eat his words and admit that for once his wife was completely correct and right to insist you attend this weekend party.’
‘Hmm,’ Margaret said non-committedly. She hated deceiving her father even more than her mother, as he had never been anything less than supportive of her.
While her mother had been unable to concede defeat and accept that Margaret was all but on the shelf, her father had always said he would support her whether she married or not, for which she was eternally grateful. Most young ladies did not have that luxury and had no choice but to find a husband, any husband, if they were to avoid the ignominy of becoming a governess or an elderly lady’s paid companion. Fortunately, her father had assured her that would never be her fate.
She knew that both parents cared about her happiness; it was just unfortunate that her mother thought the only way a woman could be happy was to marry, to whom was an irrelevance, although a man with a title would of course be the preference.
Hence her reason for this subterfuge. But she doubted her honourable father would understand or accept the duplicitous scheme she had concocted with the Duke. So on this one occasion she would leave him in the dark as to her true intentions.
A decisive rap on the door interrupted her thoughts and announced the arrival of Gertrude. Her mother rushed across the room to open the door and whispered something to her lady’s maid.
‘Gertrude is going to help you with your undergarments while we wait for Molly,’ her mother announced, once again taking her seat. ‘As you said, you don’t want to be late for the ball.’
Margaret suspected that a concern about punctuality was not the reason for Gertrude’s presence but consented to her helping her out of her dress and stays. When she turned her back so Gertrude could do up her corset, her mother’s plan became obvious. Gertrude’s strong fingers pulled in the laces so tightly the air burst out of Margaret’s lungs.
‘I can’t breathe,’ she gasped out, as Gertrude’s fingers worked methodically up the crossed laces, pulling the corset even tighter, the whalebones digging into Margaret’s ribs. ‘Please, not so tight.’
Her plea fell on deaf ears. Gertrude gave the laces one last decisive tug, tied them at the top and turned her around to face her mother.
