My door opened.
This time the knock was Mama’s.
“Ruth, wake up, dear. You have a guest coming. This time he’ll meet your father.”
If there were ever a more dangerous statement to begin a day, that was it. My guest…meeting Papa. The shock of it drove me to shoot straight up.
I dangled my feet over the side of the bed. Stepping down, my cold toes found no slippers. The puce, deeply pink things had been moved again.
Fingers tapping on the bed table, I found my spectacles.
Mama was in the closet. The sound of her fumbling through tissue paper separating my gowns annoyed me. She was doing this for the baron. Had she forgotten that it was up to me to choose?
And she’d never done this for Mr. Marks, but the barrister had never visited two days in a row.
“Ah, Ruth look at this. It has details at the bosom and on the sleeve. It’s lively.”
The rust color was rich, made for a woman who didn’t mind being seen.Is that me? Do I want the baron’s attention?
She held the dress to my chin, then laid the heavy silk over my stiff arm. The damask silk felt cool to my sleep-warmed skin. “Yes, Mama. Thank you.”
She kissed my forehead. “Christopher is already downstairs. He’s looking forward to spending time with Lord Wycliff.”
Mama moved to the door, even clasped the knob, but turned. “I hope you are looking forward to seeing him, too. He’s quite attentive.”
I lifted my gaze from the silk to Mama.
She stood still, with her hands fidgeting at the door.
Was she lingering, to hear me agree?
Was she checking to see if my fit had passed?
Or was she hoping for something else—that smiling at a pretty dress erased four years of not being believed. No silk, no matter how bold or fancy, would hide that proof came in the form of a man and not her daughter’s words.
Stoic Mama stared back. The silence between us grew.
I waited for her to say, or even hint at, hersorriesout loud. Didn’t she know the wild child was a stubborn tigress? I was quick to love, fast to offer sass, and slow to forgive. That was me.
“I’ll send up a maid. Do you need help with your hair, Ruth?”
When we were little, Mama had always done our hair. Ester was tender headed. She’d hollered something awful.
But not me. I was strong, and I welcomed the finish, the perfect braid, the hoity-toity chignon and our two faces, Mama’s and mine, smiling and shining in the mirror.
They’d survived another hairdo-ing together.
I was still her stubborn wild child, and I’d survived four years by myself. “I can manage.”
My mother nodded, then left.
The door closed. Very easy was the sound, not a slam, nothing showing finality or disapproval. Perhaps that meant she’d return and try again.
I fingered the lace on the gown’s bodice, the long sleeves. Maybe I’d welcome another try. Maybe.
But I was grateful that she’d reminded me of who I was. I needed to stop forgetting.
With Wycliff coming, I prepared myself to comfort my child if the baron looked at Chris and saw nothing of Adam. My baby couldn’t be hurt. If he wasn’t Adam’s, Chris’s paternity would be the one lie I’d accept.
