Page 15 of Reflections of Silence

“No, madame.” She bobbed, clutching my trembling hairbrush.

“So, the young man?”

“Oh. Yes, he—that is, James, he—he’s been with the house for many years. We grew up together.” Eyes round with memory, Minette bobbed again. “Will you need me again tonight, madame?”

“I’m sure he’s lovely,” I said belatedly. “No. I’ll manage to undress myself this evening.”

I’d spied the nightdress she’d laid out on the bed, and knew a fresh brick would be waiting at the bottom for me, though the nights were anything but cold.

“He is,” she said, smiling brilliantly, returning to our prior conversation. It transformed her from a small, tiny girl, into a radiant young woman.

She left quickly, and I was glad of it—tears sprang to my eyes. While Minette had the memory of her childhood sweetheart, I didn’t have a single friend inside the house. I resolved that tomorrow, I would make a few of my own.

Minette did me the favor of laying out attire for dinner after I assured her I would dress myself, unused to being so assisted and waited upon, and having no intent of starting a daily trend now. On special occasions, perhaps. Thankfully, rather than being offended, my new maid selected an ensemble I could get into on my own.

The material was a deep burgundy brocade, heavy, and completely unsuited to the climate here, though that didn’t surprise me—women’s attire often had little to do with circumstance over what appealed.

As long as we were all kept looking pretty.

Berating myself for my lack of charity in the face of so much—I’d walked off the ship yesterday with naught but a wooden box and the worn dress I arrived in. The more I stared at the brocade that gloved my too-slim figure, the more it reminded me of portraits in houses my father had taken me to visit in years long gone, as a child.

I’d studied those pictures, because none of the men my father befriended seemed to have children, or at least any of my age, and so I was left to wander. The portrait galleries gave me hours of entertainment, and a little fashion-based education. This fabric looked to be two-hundred years or so out of date by continental standards, though by the grace of God—or an amazing seamstress—it was tailored into a newer style.

I gave in to the urge to investigate and flipped the material over. Beneath, new darts and seams had been sewn over older, yellowed threads, bringing the dress into something more of this century. A light over-jacket with a ruffle along the front would hide the altered waistline and changes to the neckline.

Though it didn’t need it, I mused; the alterations were masterfully done. I wondered if Minette had a hand in it.

The gown slid on easily enough and wasn’t as heavy as I’d expected, though it did fit like a glove—adding to my suspicion it had been altered for my fit.

I fussed with my hair, straightening loose flowing curls, and added a little powder to my face. It was nothing on what Minette could achieve—I knew her skill in that already—but I’d told the girl she was free for the evening, perhaps to pursue her beau. I wasn’t about to break my word so fast and for such a small thing.

If a few loose hairs upset my husband, then we had more problems than what stood at face value. And besides, my resolution was to make friends—and the only people I could do that with was the downstairs staff, if the locale offered nothing else in the realm of population. Besides, I was already in love with their burgeoning relationships. A romantic at heart perchance, but what else should a Parisian be? Maybe that made me a gossip, but a girl had to entertain herself somehow.

A faint rap on my door announced dinner. The sound froze me, my limbs stiff as I stared at the door. The rap came again, and I stepped up to the door and pulled it open, ready to berate the manservant.

“Charleton, I?—”

I halted mid-sentence because it wasn’t Charleton at all. I stared at an unadorned waistcoat that surrounded a wide chest leading to broad shoulders.

Dressed in a fresh charcoal jacket adorned with colorful embroidery, matched to a black velvet waistcoat and cravat beneath, Sebastian looked impeccable. My gaze halted at his face. Dark, liquid eyes stared at me from beneath finely-lined brows, giving an appearance of youth, a much older soul lurking beneath his elegant exterior.

The soft black of his cravat provided his alabaster skin with a marbled quality, the deep red of his lips in direct contrast.

For the first time in my life, I felt like a frump.

Even in my singular dress I’d worn from France had I not been so out of place as I was before this man who had taken me to wife.

I am his wife.

While I'd been thinking of him as my husband, I’d forgotten to call myself his wife. Somehow, that elevated status made my observations that much worse. I stilled in my self-consciousness, unwilling to say or do anything that might draw his attention tome but that wasn’t by my choice; his gaze lit on me and refused to leave.

I knew the dress I wore was beautiful, but I was insignificant next to the carved beauty before me. Out of my control, my mouth opened but nothing came out. Making sure every muscle did as I asked, I shut it, letting my eyes roam over him.

“I thought we might dine together.” He coughed at the false start, proffering his elbow.

“Yes,” I nodded. Sliding my fingers around the fine material of his jacket—is that silk?—I matched his pace along the hallway, neither of our footsteps making any noise on the heavy carpet. I expected Charleton to be at the top of the stairs where he had been this morning—was it this morning?—his absence sitting peculiarly with me. “Charleton mentioned it.”

My throat was still dry, regardless of how much I swallowed, so I held my silence for once, praying I wouldn't be like this all night.

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